The Enlightened Witnesses
by Leraika
Summary: "Herein being a true, accurate and in no way libellous account of all the stupid, amusing and downright offensive things committed by the surviving representatives of the Sarmatian cohort's final days at Hadrian's Wall." Follows on from my other fic, "Tristan's Slave" (which probably ought to be read first), features OC knights and an established Tristan/OC relationship. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**My very dear readers, it is my very great pleasure to announce the Interval Show that lets you catch up with our beloved characters ten years' after the events of Tristan's Slave. Yes, it's set during the film's timeline. This mini, multi-chapter fic will then be followed by the Official Sequel that will, as I have said before, be set in another fandom. **

**Warnings : Swearing and violence from the start. Maybe some tasteful sexy-times later. The rating is a precaution, not a promise. There will also be a lot of jokes. These are intentional, so there is no need to adjust your set. **

**Disclaimers : The OCs are mine and mine alone. I'm not making any money out of this. **

* * *

**"The Enlightened Witnesses"**

 **Or…**

 **"Arthur, we have no time." **

**Or…**

 **"For fuck's sake, move it!"**

* * *

 _ **Herein being a true, accurate and in no way libellous account of all the stupid, amusing and downright offensive things committed by the surviving representatives of the Sarmatian cohort stationed at Hadrian's Wall, when either intoxicated, pissed off or just merry.**_

 _ **This shall be a true, accurate and realistic representation of the exuberance and simple joys of military life, betrayal, freedom and the perfidy of religious men, values that the Sarmatian knights attempt to live by.**_

 _ **It shall also serve as a warning of the terrible things that Arthur can do to a person's sanity.**_

* * *

The release papers had arrived. They were already in Britannia. They were being brought by a bishop who had been a friend of Arthur's father.

No one could stifle the anticipation that lingered around the fort. Only one cohort remained, the rest having already been recalled to Eboracum. The fort had been slowly abandoned over the previous two years. People had begun to move away from the Wall too, with the ever-increasing Saxon and Angle incursions. To be fair, many of them had already settled in and were simply living on the island like anyone else. But predictably the more hardcore Romano-Britons and Celts weren't happy about the migrants and preserved their culture by moving west.

Everyone who had survived was cheerful. Old arguments were suspended as much as possible for the sake of a 'happy ending'.

No one had yet voiced the fact that they would have to journey back to Sarmatia together, though, that there was ample time for further bickering.

Tristan, being a deeply selfish creature by nature, saw everything as ' _Mine, mine and mine'_. Unless he didn't like it, then it was ' _Die, die and death'_. The knights were ' _Mine'_ , his horse was ' _Mine'_ , the killer chicken known as Aritei was ' _Mine'_.

Now would be a good time to describe Aritei to my dear readers. Aritei is a Harris hawk—not present in my own world's Britain for at least another thousand years—and was adopted by Tristan a couple of years previously. I was sure it had been the forfeit of a complex and very stupid dare, but nevertheless, we had carefully raised the ugly little mutant dust-bunny until it had become a large and highly aggressive feather duster. Everyone else—including Gawain—believed that Aritei was some sort of demonic servant that could talk to us. This was nonsense and regardless of the others' superstition, Aritei was just a bird—a reactionary bundle of feather-brained nerves armed with a razor-sharp beak and eight talons that could punch through a leather boot. I can attest to this and Tristan had to buy me a brand new pair.

According to Tristan's unique brand of logic, I was simultaneously ' _Mine'_ and ' _Die'_. This was because we had long since realised that it is perfectly possible to love and hate someone simultaneously. Not that anyone else understood this, but they accepted we were almost constantly in a state of war against each other and the world in general.

In other words, we were going steady.

But trying to convince Gawain of that was still taking some work—despite the following salient facts: one, despite the constant friendly debates (blazing fights) Tristan and I shared a bed each night. Two, we had committed to owning a pet together—even if that pet was a misanthropic bird whose definition of 'prey' was terrifyingly broad. Three, we'd been 'courting' for _ten years_ already.

What we didn't mention were the strange circumstances that had rendered Tristan and me functionally immortal. It was something we rarely talked about in detail, even to each other. However, concerning our plans after Tristan's release from service, we had decided to travel and make a push to visit Sarmatia while we could. The threat of expulsion from this world loomed like a thundercloud over our heads. I was praying for a message or sign that would let us know how long we had, but after nine years of silence I had given up looking over my shoulder for my sadistic patron god. Moreover, covering up our numerous deaths in the line of duty was pretty trying.

Gawain, the most steadfast adoptive brother a girl could wish for, was supportive of the unspoken cares that caused Tristan and I to occasionally whisper to each other in the shadows, even if he would never know the secret. Deep down, Gawain knew that Tristan and I wanted— _needed_ —to be together, but he didn't seem ready to let me go. Perhaps it had something to do with Sarmatia not being the far off Eden of peace and redemption that it seemed to be in Galahad's rose-tinted dreams. There was something of a divide with the remaining nine: the romantics and the cynics. The former comprised of Galahad, Dinadan, Dagonet and (surprisingly enough) Lancelot. Oh, the dear Second in Command like to pretend he was all hard-bitten and world-weary, but beneath the veneer of jaded grimness he felt the wounds that still lay open.

Gawain was a cynic because out of him and Galahad, someone had to be. He was steadfast and laidback where Galahad was fractious and sensitive. Gawain had recovered from the loss of Brenna, but it had taken time and it had changed him. Kahedin and Cador had been cynical from birth, the latter a counterweight to his twin's unashamedly manly tears. Meanwhile Bors knew that he would not suit the life of a nomadic herdsman if he returned to Sarmatia. He would take his chances with Vanora in Britannia, and try to convince Dagonet to stay too.

And Tristan was alone in knowing that it was out of his hands. He was still not a free man, having chained himself to my fate by choice. I worried about this, despite his reassurances that he had no regrets. He would not react well if we were transported to the galaxy far, far away rife with Jedi and spaceships.

And to make matters more interesting, Kahedin and the twins were away in Londinium arranging for our journey to Gaul and from there across Europe to Sarmatia. Except for Arthur who was going back to Rome—as he had been telling us at least once a week for the past ten years. None of us wanted to hear another word about Rome ever again.

And so out of a possible thirty, there were only nine knights alive when the term of service finally came to an end.

Not that I could be included (nor did I want to be) in that number. I was a useful agent, but not a knight. Nor should it come as a surprise that I was not invited on the final excursion to baby Bishop Germanus back to the fort.

I went along anyway, believing that it was my final chance to annoy Arthur on official duty.

I smiled innocently and waved the men off with Jols at the gate until they were safely on their way. Then I dropped a wink at Jols, who smirked back, and I ran back to Numa's stall where she was already tacked up—her saddle hidden by a blanket. I didn't bother to take weapons—beyond my usual dozen knives—and set off after the men I had watched over for so long. I didn't take their chosen route, but cut through the woods and was surprised when Aritei swooped down and landed on my shoulder.

"Ouch! Get off!" I yelped, immediately bringing my arm up—Aritei saw this as her signal to hop onto my gloved vambrace, which was a far better place for her. I huffed and glared at the bird—whose mad golden stare reminded me of the futility of trying to reason with a particularly stupid animal. I looked around, on the alert. The only reasons why Aritei would bother to swoop down and visit was to say that trouble was imminent or that she was carrying a message from Tristan. I reined Numa into a halt and listened, my eyes scanning the deep undergrowth. Damn, the bird was right—something was off.

Numa picked up on it too and snorted, tossing her head and stamping her foot. I laid a hand on her neck and she stilled. Good, well-trained horse. Then I nudged her forward at a walk. With one arm busy holding up the damn bird, I had only one hand free to fight.

Hmph.

Stalemate.

I edged Numa forward, scanning my surroundings for clues.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a familiar war cry.

Woads.

"Damn them!" I sighed and urged Numa into a speedy trot. The last thing I wanted was for her to hurt herself, but I had to see why the Woads were south of the Wall. Their incursions were increasingly frequent, but if they sought to destroy the last of the knights, I would hunt Merlin down and kill him myself. I had no long range weapons, no sword, _nothing._ How absolutely bloody typical!

I launched Aritei off my arm, unwilling to hurt the murderous pet, then dismounted Numa and tied her to a tree before setting off at a dead run towards the sounds of violence.

I slid down a bank, miraculously staying on my feet before springing across a creek and running up the slope. It was only then that I realised I had inadvertently managed to sneak up on the rear guard of the Woads' party leader.

 _My, my_ … I thought, silently drawing a knife. _They really must be feeling confident to have sent Merlin himself south of the Wall._

I was in a quandary. I could retreat and approach the battle from a different angle, or I could be a brief and suicidal assassin and have a real crack at Merlin's destruction.

Then I heard Bors' foghorn battle cry and figured that six knights and the unwary idiot soldiers (who had likely never seen a Woad before in their lives) escorting the bishop were outnumbered and could use my help in an obvious quarter.

Besides, it would annoy Arthur.

I had the hood of my tunic pulled up over my long hair (yes, after ten years it was finally back to full length!) and I slithered back down the slope before running at a distance-devouring lope to the narrow clearing where the fight was still raging.

I burst from the tree-line in hot pursuit of a Woad who was trying to sneak up on Lancelot. "Hurry up, you're missing all the fun!" I shouted at him as we hurtled past at a dead run.

"Huh? _Chickie?!"_ Lancelot exclaimed, chasing after us.

That tiresome nickname earned only one sort of response from me. "Sheep-fucking pillock!" I retorted, ducking under another Woad's wild swing and letting Lancelot (right on my heels now) deal with him.

"I heard that horrible insult you ungrateful midget!" he roared after me, fully engaged in deadly combat on my behalf.

Lancelot was hardly original in his insults.

Then Dagonet caught sight of me and rolled his eyes. "Does Gawain know you're here?" he bellowed, striding over to me and looking deadly earnest.

"What's Gawain got to do with this?" I asked, settling into stride next to Dagonet. We proceeded to cut a swathe through the remaining Woads who stood in our way. "And why are you soaking wet?"

He grunted as he chopped a Woad almost clean in half. "Focus," he reminded me. I found the breath to laugh as I dodged the wild lunge of a Woad, grabbed him by the wrist and swung him into the path of Dagonet's whirling sword. We worked in diligent harmony for a few more minutes before I spotted Tristan on the periphery of the group, taking pot-shots at the archers. I knew it was only a matter of time before he dismounted and started slicing away on foot—as the only scout left at the Fort, he had been run ragged in Kahedin's absence. Which, of course, meant that I had also been over-worked and under-appreciated.

'Standard Operating Procedure!' I hear you cry, and yes, you may be right, but have you ever tried to counteract guerrilla warfare from the natives while simultaneously moving house? If I were in a position to do so, I'd have taken up smoking since alcohol (much like failure) was simply not an option.

"I go to my knight!" I cried, breaking from Dagonet's protective shadow and sprinting towards Tristan, who was doing a damn fine job of not letting any Woad escape the playing field. I gave the bishop's carriage a wide berth, since I could hear Gawain's roaring from that general area. However, before I could get to Tristan, Galahad's horse cantered up beside me.

"Get on, Brat!" Galahad called.

It was as if I hadn't been going by 'Kation' for the past ten years.

 _Ten. Years._

They persisted in trite nicknames and it was useless to protest. They just created more and increasingly unflattering epithets when I scowled or muttered. So I tried to rise above it and affect insouciance to their childish behaviour.

I considered the invitation for three more strides before grabbing the pinion loop behind the saddle and swinging myself up onto the horse behind Galahad, who kept firing off arrows. I waited until we neared Tristan, and then leapt off again with a shout of thanks to Galahad who swore at me before galloping away to cause more havoc.

* * *

TRISTAN:

He had a cold. That alone was enough to make him want to murder everyone with unstifled nasal passages for having the gall to exist near him. Head throbbing and breathing stertorously through his mouth, he exercised his wrath on the Woads who so thoughtfully presented themselves in his path.

And then there was Kation. What the hell was she doing there?! A narrow blur of dark clothes and black hair whirled past him, chasing down a Woad.

"Hi darling!" she called cheerfully, not breaking stride.

"You!" he snarled, and set off after her. She hadn't even brought her sword! He overtook her and killed the Woad before rounding on her. "Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I'm out of breath," she said. "Now come on!" And she spun away and began running back to the fight which was dying down somewhat as the knights and surviving legionaries brought the fracas under control. Tristan whistled, summoning his horse Tagiytei and he mounted up before following at a weary plod. He had aged, unlike Kation who was still twenty-two on the outside, while he was now in his late thirties. When the silver had appeared in his beard and hair, Kation had laughed herself into stitches. There was a reason behind Dagonet and Bors' shaven heads and chins.

Unlike Galahad. It had to be the most surprising and amusing beard ever to sprout from a man's face, which had been grown to prove he was all grown up. Kation and Kahedin had been running a book on whether Galahad could produce one at all, but his hairy Sarmatian blood had not failed him. Dagonet had won the whole pot.

When he reached the spent scene of carnage, Kation was being shaken forcibly by her adopted brother Gawain. And he was yelling at her.

" _You cannot resist, can you?"_ he snarled in Sarmatian. " _At the very moment of our release, you do this!"_

"Kation?" Arthur's voice cut across Gawain's tirade. He looked stern, but Kation remained unrepentant.

"Sir," she said, reverting to her gruff boy's voice. Ten years down the line, and Arthur still hadn't twigged to Kation's true gender. It seemed to Tristan that when a man does not want to see something, he became steadfastly blind. Moreover, it was a closely guarded secret between Gawain, Tristan, Kahedin and Vanora. Some other knights suspected, but they respected (feared) Kation too much to voice their questions. But fortunately, Kation was a very lean, curveless and flat-chested woman with an angular face, so it was easier for her than it would be for someone of Vanora's physical calibre.

Arthur was attempting to interrogate the Woad warrior he had spared, but since he didn't speak a word of their language (unlike Tristan, Kahedin and Kation, who had taken great pains to do so) it was a useless gesture. Once he let the man go, much to everyone else's disgust, he turned back just in time to reprimand Kation. He looked ready to start joining Gawain in shaking Kation till her teeth rattled in her head. "You were told to stay at the Fort," he said.

Kation shrugged, her mouth a thin line of suppressed amusement. "Couldn't resist one last scrap?"

"And how did you know there would even—?" Arthur asked. Then he realised who he was talking to and shook his head. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Kation shot a smug look at Gawain, who muttered something under his breath and stomped off to his horse. Arthur waved a hand. "Go, get back to the Fort before I have you whipped."

Kation's smug look deepened and she threw a wink at Tristan before openly strolling back to the misty treeline on the ridge where doubtless more Woads lurked. Tristan felt anxiety seize his heart for a moment. Even after ten years, knowing that she would always come back from death was a secondary thought to the idea of her actually being killed. Not a shot was fired, nor was Kation's severed head thrown back out at them from the shadows.

Then Arthur told him (utterly predictably) to 'Ride On Ahead' to secure the road while the knights stayed to augment the bishop's escort. He did so, and at the second bend in the road, he found Kation waiting for him on Numa, her little roan mare.

"How's the cold?" she asked.

"Fuck off." He knew she said these things deliberately.

"Aw," she crooned in mock sympathy. "Want me to run the patrol?"

Tristan, wondering for the umpteenth time what on earth he liked about her when she was being this patronising, made a great show of sniffing and wheezing while hunting about his person for one of the things she had made him. She called it a 'handkerchief'. Kation laughed in a distinctly mocking way and rode off to complete his assignment. She often doubled up with Tristan in his duties, not because they were too great for him, but because they could achieve even more if there were two of them at work. It also lent to the growing superstitions that he and Kation were demons incarnate, because they always seemed to be in at least two places at once.

And in moments like this, it meant that he could actually recover from illness and injury while Kation picked up the slack.

He walked Tagiytei back to the others, several of whom grinned at the sight of the handkerchief that he was hastily stuffing up the cuff of his tunic sleeve. So he cast them such a foul look that they hastily moved their attention back to other things.

Ha! At least he still frightened _most_ people.

* * *

 **So, there is the first chapter. Hope it's not too awful, I am going to zip through the timeline of the film and no more, because I've got so many writing projects on the go and dare not linger.**

 **Go ahead, hit me with your feedback, I can't wait to read it.**

 **~L.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone!**

 **Hugest apologies for the unacceptable delay in this chapter. T** **he reasons (excuses) are twofold.**

 **1: My very old laptop died, and I lost a lot of stuff. (I know, I know... I'm a lazy bugger about backing-up. I've learned my lesson, ok?)  
2: Spring term at uni has been _horrible_. Endless battles with the human colostomy bag of a teacher, loads of work, loads of extra-curricular work, a never-ending mountain of paperwork and a very minor car accident that shredded my last nerve.**

 **Disclaimers : All OCs are mine. Nothing else. **

**Warnings : Swearing. Snark. Arthur-Is-Stupid ranting. **

* * *

I shan't lie, I was pretty excited. Ten years (yes, I'm going to keep repeating myself on this point, because that's a really long time) and I could finally leave and see something of the world. Gawain was determined to drag me back to meet the rest of the family, who he assured me would be delighted to have such a 'murderous and strange' daughter. I had already untacked Numa, washed the blood off my hands and put my bloodstained clothes into the laundry basket.

Ladies, it turns out that basket-weaving is solely the craft of Sarmatian _males_.

You read that right. Men make baskets for the women, often as part of courtship, but also for wives, mothers, sisters, etc. Gawain and Tristan had squared off for weeks over it when I mentioned I wanted a basket for all the dirty clothes that needed somewhere to stay until I did a laundry run. There was chest-puffing, muscle flexing and nostril flaring as they glared horribly at each other. Gawain asserted that he hadn't consented to the basket-weaving stage of my (extremely long) courtship with Tristan, while my beloved argued that ten years of preliminary courtship was excessive. As they argued back and forth, Kahedin was the one who actually took the time to make me a basket.

"Rome will go up in flames before they figure out I've even done it," was all he said as he plonked the lovely basket on the floor near my trunk. I ran after him and rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek and the promise of a back-rub later. (I had discovered a dormant talent for working stubborn knots out of muscles somewhere around the third-year mark.) Kahedin had made it back to his rooms in time to avoid Gawain and Tristan who had just returned from a cathartic sparring session. Both men immediately spotted the basket and drew steel on each other again, each assuming the other had stolen a march on him.

I got between them and was nearly crushed between their chests as I yelled for help. Dagonet appeared like magic and caught Gawain in a bear hug, lifted him clean off the floor and bore him away. I knew he'd calm my brother down (the easier of the two options) and leave me to deal with Tristan.

I smiled fondly at the memory as I changed into another suit of narrow black clothes—everything I owned was black, dark brown or dark green these days—and pulled my tall boots back on. I decided that I'd send the last lot of laundry down after Tristan returned and changed. We were almost fully packed. It was amazing how much junk one can acquire over ten years. Tristan and I had bickered for ages about what we would take and what we would leave. And Gawain was no help, insisting that I'd be returning to the Aorsi with him, rather than going back to the Halani with Tristan.

I climbed out onto the roof from our bedroom—as was routine—and strolled over to the inner courtyard of the barracks to watch the show. It was as I rested my chin on my knee that I noticed Vanora waiting outside the Sarmatian barracks with all eleven of her children.

Yup.

Eleven.

If it weren't for two sets of twins, I wouldn't have thought it possible to average one child per year since my arrival in Britannia. Gilly was eleven years old and an utter terror. I'd hoped he would turn into a sheepdog for the rest of the monstrous brood, but to no avail. He was a pugnacious little brat who only respected his mother and me—his unofficial godparent.

Thinking about it, that might explain an awful lot…

And to make matters worse, I was known as 'Kat-kat' to the whole bloody lot of them, because despite all efforts to the contrary children will insist on making one ridiculous. Vanora was cradling the latest chubby infant Ten or rather 'Decem', to be strictly accurate (yes, the children were numbered because Bors was too lazy and Vanora thought it might start a trend) and the rest of the hoard was clustered about her legs, waiting for any sign of their father.

As I sat paring my fingernails with a small sharp knife, I wished I'd remembered some food, but there was no point in leaving now, when I had the opportunity to watch the knights ride in. Arthur was looking splendid (because _I_ had spent the previous afternoon polishing his breastplate for him) and I was rather pleased to see that all the boys (yes, they were all my boys in a certain sort of way) were looking ferocious and stern as they stared at they rode into the fort with their heads held high and their backs very straight.

The bishop— _eyebrows!—_ did not look impressed with the Fort, and I was tempted to show him the annual budget and point out the deficiencies in state funds for repair and improvement. And it wasn't as if we didn't all know that the Romans were officially abandoning the island, either. Of course we knew. The boys were really upset about it, but that's what alcohol and whinging's for. Even so, I avoided them when they looked ready to brood.

I slunk off, ducking back into our room to grab a bag of trail mix (although this is a tragic effort in my ongoing development of snacking) and climb into the hiding spot I had made in the false upper gallery that encircled the Round Table Room. I'd even managed to smuggle a pillow in to make the tedious 'secret' meetings more bearable. Really, Arthur should just give up and accept I was going to eavesdrop, regardless of what he threatened me with.

So I sat up there munching on roasted nuts and jerky as the knights all sat in their seats, chatting amicably while they waited for the bishop to change into his fancy robes before joining them. Jols would be taking point on that one, since he knew I'd be perched in my hiding place ahead of time.

It was vastly amusing to see the bishop's expression when he saw not only the seating arrangement, but also the paucity of Sarmatians. And "What evil is this?" about the Table has got to be one for the Quote Book. Jols explained the revolutionary notion of equality with pardonable smugness, and I mourned (not for the 1000th time) the lack of rubber trees. I really missed elastic and in this particular instance, wanted a slingshot to fire dried peas at the bishop's squared off forehead.

The fact that he'd said 'final _days_ of service' was troubling and Lancelot—impulsive git that he was—questioned it. I noticed Tristan had sat down before being told to, which was typical of him. He could never hide his contempt. The usual guff happened, everyone toasted with _golden wine cups_ and even from my vantage point, I could see that the bishop was a lying scumbag. Clearly Pelagius was out of fashion in Rome, because even if Arthur missed that awkward micro-pause, I did not. And then the discharge papers were brought out and the knights couldn't stay in their seats. They were too excited.

Poor buggers.

"… What happens to Britain is not our concern anymore. I suppose the Saxons will claim it soon."

"Saxons?" Arthur said, as if this was news to him.

Which it bloody well wasn't.

We had been warning him about increased Saxon raids all along the eastern coast for years. But somehow he always failed to retain that information until the army was practically knocking on our front door.

"Yes," said the bishop. "In the north, a massive Saxon incursion has begun."

The knights muttered amongst themselves, and Galahad (idiot boy) actually demanded to know if he'd risked his life for nothing.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. This was not going well…

The bishop took his revenge by showing them the papers and watching their eyes light up, before demanding they all get the hell out because he wanted to talk to Arthur in private.

Which was suspicious.

"We have no secrets," Arthur said smugly, as if his ideology would somehow overcome the bishop's power and higher rank.

The bishop slammed the box shut in answer, barely flicking a glance to his old friend's son.

I managed to catch Lancelot's eye from my hiding place and nodded vigorously, pointing to my ear. He caught the meaning of this and hustled everyone out, even going so far as to toast the bishop sarcastically. I noticed Tristan stealing his golden wine cup, but no one attempted to stop him. That's how (awful) deadly his reputation is.

The moment the door shut, I saw the bishop turn to Arthur. "Rome has a final order for you and your knights." He even had the gall to smile, as if this was a marvellous career opportunity.

"Final order?" Arthur looked unamused.

 _Should have seen that one coming,_ I thought. I was unsurprised. I'd got the measure of this bishop and it hadn't been rocket science to see that he'd been gearing up to pull a fast one on us. Hell, even _Lancelot_ had spotted it! It's certainly a cold day in hell when _Lancelot's_ showing heretofore unrevealed IQ points.

The bishop disclosed the presence of a Roman estate north of the Wall, and a certain boy who was the Pope's favourite godchild and destined to step into his swanky Pope-shoes. The fact that they had managed to survive north of the Wall, _and_ have contact with Rome suggested that this Honorius chap could get himself out of trouble. I knew of the Honorius estate, and it had a seriously hardcore cohort that escorted the family members to Eboracum whenever they desired a little cosmopolitan luxury.

Really, did the bishop think that we were all stupid just because Arthur had all the cunning of a sleepy duckling?

Arthur wasn't really thinking critically, as usual. I could see his temper brewing. "On this day…" he said, staring straight ahead. "You ask this of my men, on _this_ day." He got up and paced, trying to rein it in. "They have risked their lives for fifteen years, for a cause not of their own. And now, on the day they are to be liberated, you send them on a mission which is far more dangerous than any other they have undertaken?"

 _Come now, laundry day last month had been pretty fraught,_ I thought.

"Tell me, bishop," Arthur said, carrying on with his futile guilt trip. "How do I go to my men and tell them that instead of freedom, I offer death?"

"If your men are truly the knights of legend, perhaps some will survive," the bishop said. "If it is God's will."

Low blow.

"Your men want to go home, but to get home, they need to cross the entire breadth of the Roman empire. Deserters would be hunted down like dogs."

That gave Arthur pause. The bishop and I could both see it.

"Will you defy the Pope, Arthur? Rome? God himself?"

"Everything I've done has been for the Church and for Rome!" Arthur said, flaring up. "Do not mistake a loyal soldier for a fool, Germanus!"

 _Oh no, he knows you're a fool_, I thought. _That's why he's certain you're going to do as you're told._

"Would you leave a defenceless Roman boy, who is destined to lead our church, to the hands of the Saxons?" the bishop snarled. "Fulfil this mission, and the men will receive their discharge. Their papers will be waiting here the moment they return. You have my word."

See, this wasn't really a negotiation. The bishop had brought the orders from Rome, and Arthur was never going to have a say in it. Arthur didn't seem to realise this. He still thought he had some kind of power in this situation. Because what did the chump do?

Why, he threatened the bishop, of course.

"You think very hard on that vow, bishop, for I will hold you to it. Break it, and no Roman Legion, papal army, not God himself will protect you. That is my word."

The bishop looked unnerved, not because Arthur was scary—he really wasn't—but because all simple people are rather frightening. I mean, what other kind of person would threaten the one who controlled the fate of the knights? Why not play the game and outmanoeuvre him some other way?!

I waited until both of them had left the room before dashing up from my hiding place and sprinting off to find Tristan. This was very bad news. So, I didn't bother to stop for my cloak as I bolted up onto the rooftops and headed for the tavern.

* * *

TRISTAN:

Kation did that aggravating thing that she enjoyed doing. That is, plummeting soundlessly to the ground in front of him like a cat. And, like every other time, he jumped and swore.

"Honestly…" he growled, catching her by the shoulders and casually slamming her against the wall of the alley. " _Why?_ Is something on fire?"

"I was listening in the Round Table Room," she said. "After you left—and it's bad."

Kation was not prone to exaggeration and so he paid attention. Relaxing his grip, he waited and watched her carefully. Her face was inscrutable, as usual, but her eyes were sparking with anger and that was also rare.

"Arthur's coming to break the news," Kation went on, tipping her head back against the brickwork and sighing. "But sufficed to say that the bishop came carrying not just the special paperwork, but also orders for a final suicide mission."

Tristan felt a cold curl of rage encircle his gut. But when Kation wrenched away from his grip, he realised that his hand had tightened painfully on her shoulder. "Sorry."

She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. "I had a plan that could have got us those discharge papers while avoiding the mission altogether."

"Oh?" Tristan felt dread replace the rage. Kation's ideas were usually insanely dangerous.

"But it won't work because Arthur capitulated and screwed it up."

"Oh."

"Yup."

They stood there in mutual angry silence for a bit. Then Kation stepped forward and embraced him. "You should be with the others when Arthur comes to tell you. He'll be taking a tour of the fort while he organises his speech."

"And you?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her in turn.

She smirked up at him. "Why, I'll be packing our things for a little trip north of the Wall."

"What?!" Tristan may have shouted the word, but all he got in response was Kation's hands tugging at his collar, pulling him down into a brief, searing kiss.

"I'll explain later if Arthur doesn't," she said, nipping at his jaw. And then she sauntered off.

"Minx!" he called after her. She waved a hand, but didn't turn round.

* * *

Needless to say, Tristan took the news rather well. I think that was mostly because he hadn't feared death before he met me, and now that he was functionally immortal, he was even less impressed by the idea.

I made myself scarce because not only did I have a lot to do before tomorrow morning, I also did not want to be present for anymore nauseatingly inspirational monologues from Arthur. Ten years of his moralising rhetoric was akin to torture. So I stayed away, packing for Tristan and myself. I knew he'd forget important things like spare socks and a scarf, but I never packed his weapons, and he returned the favour.

My faithful sword had long since been lost while out on a mission for Arthur, and I hadn't bothered to replace it. Instead, I took to archery and knives with a passion: throwing knives, dirks—you name it, I had it. I had also refined my hand-to-hand fighting skills. That is not to say I was invincible, far from it, but I could hold my own when it counted.

I jumped when I heard Bors' scream of rage—that man was unbelievably loud. Clearly Arthur had finally arrived at the tavern…

More voices were raised in fury in a suddenly quiet Fort. I knew that none of the knights would say 'no', but that only exacerbated the worry. Only Tristan would come back from death, and I had a brother to worry about. Frankly, they were all family, although some of them were definitely in the 'why-the-hell-are-we-related?' end of the spectrum. And it didn't take long for them to storm back up to their rooms in the barracks, swearing vilely. Gawain barged into my room, looking grim.

"Sister," he sighed. "It's…" I immediately sprang up and caught him in a hug. He couldn't finish the words, but his answering embrace was very tight.

"It's a pile of shit and totally uncalled for?" I supplied.

Gawain sighed into my hair and his shoulders shook. "Yes. We really may die this time."

I pulled away to glare up at him. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

A look of long-suffering despair crossed my brother's face. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," I replied. "You can't stop me. I'm going with you."

"Brilliant," Gawain said, rolling his eyes. "Now I have two children to worry about."

"Hey! Galahad's beard disqualifies him from any further worry. He's a _man_ now," I teased.

"You wouldn't say that if you saw his outburst just now," Gawain sighed. "I swear the boy takes after Bors."

"Not comforting," I said, shaking my head. This had to be a test from my malevolent patron god of interdimensional travel fuck ups. But failure was not an option. Not when my all too mortal brother was standing there trying to joke with me in order to hide his genuine worry. It made my blood boil just thinking about it.

"Leave your sister alone," growled a familiar voice from the doorway. "It's not as if she's been sentenced to death."

"Might as well be with _you_ as her suitor," Gawain growled, rounding on Tristan, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

I was certain that they secretly enjoyed this feud. It was a safe and moderately healthy way to relieve stress and exercise frustrations. Occasionally they even turned it into (murderous) chummy sparring sessions, although they had to be overseen by a responsible adult like Dagonet or Arthur (i.e. the parents). And Arthur was a really clueless parent. He worried and clucked like a hen, yet tried to be a father figure without really pulling it off. We indulged him in this myth, but secretly kept our own council. He was a good leader where it counted but we simply couldn't trust him to be devious enough on our behalf. And I generously include myself in this category, because I was not only Tristan's partner in crime, love and war, but also Arthur's chief auditor. That made me somewhat involved in the proceedings.

I left them to glare and puff up their chests at each other, and left to see Galahad. He hadn't liked me at first, considering me a disturbing boy-toy with a fondness for murder, but I had slowly won him over. Mostly because watching his development as a warrior and a man was nothing short of sheer entertainment. But also because Gawain's big brother urges were not fully realised in just one adopted sibling (me), so he turned a lot of his bossy concern upon Galahad, who had long since resigned himself to this indignity. We had since bonded over Gawain's ability to humiliate himself and us with his histrionics, and now enjoyed the easy camaraderie of cousins.

And now with Gawain bickering with Tristan, I knew Galahad would need a sympathetic ear. I found him packing in his room and knocked on the open door.

"You!" he snarled.

"I see you've heard the news," I said, walking into the room and sitting down on the edge of his bed.

"I'm not surprised you already knew," he said, not looking at me as he packed in swift jerky movements.

"Of course not," I replied. "It never goes our way, and it's never easy. And Arthur lacks the guile to manipulate the situation to our advantage."

"So will you stay and make sure the bastard doesn't destroy our papers?" Galahad asked, shooting me a savage grin.

"Of course not," I said. "I'm going with you lot."

What I hadn't told anyone was that I had long since made copies of Bedwyr's discharge papers for them, in case of Roman treachery or unforeseen disaster. It was the only smart course of action to take. Of course, I didn't want to have to crack them out unless it was truly serious—and this almost constituted an emergency. Unfortunately, if we did a runner now, it would be too fucking obvious and we'd be hunted down anyway.

… Unless I killed the bishop first…

"You've got that look," Galahad said, sounding unhappy.

"What look?" I asked, despite knowing perfectly well what he meant.

"The one that says you're plotting murder." Galahad smiled. "If so, get out. Not in here."

"It was just wishful thinking—the target is impossible."

"That is not reassuring," Galahad said, glaring at me. "You've said that before and still managed to kill them."

"I have, haven't I?" I said, preening at his kind words. "But in this case, Arthur would start to ask me all sorts of awkward questions if the bishop suddenly disappeared."

Galahad choked on fresh air and sputtered for a few seconds. "Th-the _bishop?"_ he wheezed.

I shrugged. "I said it was impossible."

* * *

 **As always, f** **eedback is my fuel.**

 **~L.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello everyone!**

 **Miraculous update-thank you everyone for your lovely reviews. This will be finished. Slowly. So much real world work to be done too, you know? Of course you know.  
Also off on holiday in a few hours. Please enjoy this meagre offering. **

**Warnings : Swearing, no violence. Smoochy times. **

**Disclaimers : Only the OCs are mine. Sadly making no money out of this. **

* * *

GAWAIN: 

There had been much shouting, breaking of pottery, a table or three overturned, and extremely upset knights in the wake of Arthur's announcement. Gawain had been immensely disappointed, but not so surprised as Bors or Galahad, who had to be taken in hand. _"Galahad as well_ ," had been enough to silence any further protests from the lad, but it had been a hard won thing. Especially since Tristan had done his best to send the lad into an apoplexy with the words: " _If it's a Saxon death that scares you, stay home."_

It was as if the scout didn't feel anything at the news. Not anger or happiness or dismay—nothing. Just withering sarcasm. But then losing composure was, for Tristan and Kation, a loss of face rather than an inevitable conclusion. Nevertheless, he had sought her out after leaving the tavern because he felt the need to hug the only woman left in his life. She was his sister by adoption and unlike Tristan, he took her wellbeing very seriously.

And in regards to this latest mission, he was not happy. Not happy at all. The entire situation was untenable, but Kation seemed to be amazingly calm about it all. She had even cheered up Galahad with some unsettling murder plot that they both assured him was futile (although nothing was 'futile' where his Kitten was concerned). His little sister was a menace, and he was seriously considering outing her so that Arthur would pack her off to a convent for her own safety. And everyone else's. But she'd probably murder all those holy women after a week of praying out of sheer boredom.

So instead he spent the rest of the night packing what Kation called their Quest Bags and wondering if it was too late to find a wench of loose morals to distract himself for a moment. But by the time he'd decided on this, his eyes were drooping and he decided that sleep was all he was good for.

* * *

TRISTAN: 

He looked at Kation, who had finished packing their bags and was combing her long, long hair out. It was her vanity and pride, but Tristan was forced to insist that she braided her hair at night because otherwise it attempted to smother him. Kation joked that it would never forgive him for cutting it off when she'd first arrived at the Fort. In his defence, she'd suffered a huge laceration to the back of her head that had needed stitches.

That had been before they had developed dangerous feelings for each other.

"All ready to go?" she said, smiling at him as she drew her hair over one shoulder and started to braid it.

"Of course," he said, stripping off his tunic and kicking his boots into a corner. "Now what are you really planning?"

She shot him an innocent look. "Only to help," she said in the mildest tone of voice.

Tristan's suspicion deepened. "What is going on?" he growled, even as he slid his arms around her narrow waist and pulled her hips flush against his.

Kation sighed and tipped her head back, letting him kiss the column of her throat as her fingers slid into his hair. They were both well-aware that he wouldn't give up and they'd be more than likely to bicker all the way through sex if they had to. She could become utterly immune to all his tricks when she felt like it, leaving him exhausted and ready to strangle her as she stared at her stubby nails in a very convincing show of boredom.

"Apart from this suicide mission into Hell?" she said, massaging his scalp as she toed off her own boots and let him unwrap the wide sash that she wore around her waist. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I _mean_ that you always have contingencies for such things. What is your scheme this time?" Tristan said patiently, rasping his beard against her jaw and slipping his hands up under her tunic. She shivered under his touch, but that was no sign that she was wavering mentally.

"Oh you know I don't like to spoil the surprise," she said, drawing him to the bed as she spoke. They were both shedding their clothes in earnest now, but he noticed her eyes were sharp as dagger points.

"And _you_ know how much I hate these surprises of yours," Tristan retorted, subduing his reaction to her skilled hands to a mere smirk. They'd trained themselves well over the years to resist interrogation. "Kahedin isn't here to share in your lunacy, so tell me instead."

She broke away to wriggle out of her leggings and socks, then smouldered up at him, her eyes sparking with mischief and lust. "You are going to have to do better than that."

It was a challenge Tristan was all too willing to accept.

"Get on the bed, woman. I am going to rock your world."

…

Afterwards, she was curled around him, her head on his chest and her breathing deep and even in a doze. When she finally woke up, he was asked in a grumpy voice why he was looking at her 'like that', and received a rare laugh in response. She hadn't even opened her eyes and she knew. Then she sighed and yawned. "The goal is to win, no matter what. Dirty tricks are fine so long as you come back alive." She traced idle patterns on his stomach with a finger as she spoke, her breath whispering against his skin. "That's why all marriages should have swords and armour."

This was one of the consequences of trying to interrogate his beloved during sex: the subsequent pillow talk was strange and often disturbing.

Then she stretched against him, as flexible as a cat. And he was reminded all over again of how much he liked her like this: sated, relaxed and macabre. But one word in particular had chilled him to his core.

"Married?" he said hoarsely.

Kation hummed and sighed. "Unless you don't think it's necessary."

Of course he wanted to marry her! He'd not have bothered announcing his intentions to her brother if he'd just wanted to enjoy a mutual passion. But the idea of planning the ceremony, of approaching Gawain again on the subject of Kation's future was not appealing. And it would mean revealing her true sex to everyone, which would be a disaster. And if they survived that, things would only get worse because Kation wouldn't dream of getting married without her best friends Kahedin and Vanora present. They would all be exchanging high-fives and teasing Tristan mercilessly.

Which would mean _Bors_ would be present to shake his head and mutter about needing a drink.

Which would mean _Dagonet_ would attend to beam and glow and probably cry.

And of course _Gawain_ would be present to mourn and rage. And he'd drag _Galahad_ along, who would smile in spite of his bewilderment and drink until he vomited.

And _Lancelot_ would turn up to say he knew Kat was a woman all along, and he'd smirk and tease and flirt so shamelessly that both Tristan and Gawain would set aside their differences to maul him.

And _Cador_ would be there to mock and make everyone laugh. And _Dinadan_ would hug everyone and scowl to hide how happy he was.

And _Arthur_ … if _Arthur_ was there he'd probably cause more chaos than everyone else put together. Stomping about demanding a full explanation, saying stupid things about where women _ought_ to be and thus thoroughly annoying Kation, who would probably ruin the day trying to punch him in the face.

She'd been threatening to punch him in the face for quite some time.

Nobody would force him to marry her, surely? It was precisely what Gawain _didn't_ want to happen. Arthur might. In fact, he _would,_ and worst of all the others would help him. Because apart from the sheer entertainment of such a mission, they'd also see it as Tristan's _duty_ to _make an honest woman_ of Kation.

 _Kation,_ the woman who had more twisted ideas in a week than their collective enemies had managed to produce in fifteen years of near-constant warfare.

"Tristan?" she said, pulling him from this nightmarish vision of the future. "Do you want to marry me?"

"Yes," he said faintly, praying that this was what she wanted to hear.

"Alright then," she said, her tone matter-of-fact as she snuggled her cheek against his neck and pressed a kiss to the skin under his jaw.

But he had to ask: "Do you want to marry me?"

She laughed sleepily and squeezed him in a gentle hug. "Oh we're going to get married whether you like it or not. It will be too much fun not to."

So disturbing.

* * *

Tristan was so fun to tease. I could tell that the prospect of marrying me terrified him, but I intended to make it as fun as possible. Roman soldiers were not allowed to marry until they had been discharged from service, and this included the knights. Hence Bors' Bastards. (They fully merit the capitalisation.) Fortunately, the issue of legitimacy was fairly flexible, so long as a marriage took place at some point, then all would be well. Even Arthur wasn't pressing the issue, and he'd had Bors and Vanora's wedding planned since the birth of Gilly.

I waited until Tristan had dropped off to sleep before following him into the realm of dreams. He needed to rest, since he was unwell (although I can now prove that man-flu is a truly timeless curse upon womankind) and Arthur would doubtless run him ragged during the mission. Tristan was way too tough to complain, so it was up to me to make sure his man flu didn't descend into pneumonia out of manly pride. And yes, like every other male on the planet with a cold, he _snored_. I found it oddly endearing—it was either that, or murder him. Which I was tempted to do when I woke up the next morning before dawn. The early mornings had become even earlier over the years, as I found more and more things that needed doing. So after I had washed my face and changed into fresh clothes, I went back and roused Tristan with a kiss that made him hum in appreciation and try to pull me back into bed. I was very tempted to, but knew that we had a final suicide mission to enjoy.

"Up," I said. "Come on, up… _up."_ I detached myself from his affectionate grasp and tugged at a braid. He groaned and flopped about, trying to get comfortable again, but it was no use. So he finally got out of bed, muttering foul things under his breath as he hunted about for his clothes.

Meanwhile, I attached my entire knife collection to my body. Hilts bristled across my torso, waist, back and hips. I also had a specially made brace of throwing knives on each arm. I had spent most of my off-the-books wages on high quality steel and worked closely with the blacksmith to make me perfect throwing knives and various kinds of daggers and dirks. The whole collection took me years to build and perfect. I cannot tell you how long it took to finish my longest, favourite dirk that sat in a sheath down my back.

A full-size sword on one's back only works if you've got the physical proportions of an orangutan. Or you're Tristan. And then, only because he uses a supple leather scabbard that bends as he draws his blade. I honestly don't know why he insists on carrying his sword this way, since I have lost count of the number of times the pommel has tangled into his hair. And it is always just when he really needs it, all we'll hear is a very quiet, very sincere swear word that rhymes with 'duck!' and one of us has to go and rescue him from his dubious fashion sense.

By general Sarmatian consensus and the deployment of a full-scale war-party, we managed to give our beloved scout regular, life-saving haircuts.

"So… there and back again, no stopping to look at the scenery," Tristan said, wholly unaware of _The Hobbit_ reference he'd just made.

I grinned, unable to help myself.

"What?" he asked, suspicious of my expression.

"Nothing."

"It's never 'nothing'." Which shows that men _can_ learn women's secret language if they're beaten with enough savagery after misinterpreting these responses.

I couldn't let that go unrewarded, he was turning into the perfect man. For me, anyway. Not many women find the murderous pet appealing, or the fact that he demands full-contact, full-force sparring matches that leave us both bruised and bloodied. I walked over to him and gently touched his cheek. "It's nothing serious. Almost a joke. The way you said it just… tickled me, I suppose."

He nodded, understanding the quirks of the human mind and planted a swift kiss on my wrist before pulling away to get dressed. Sourpuss that he was, he grumbled about the whole thing in his native Halani dialect, which is characterised by more irregular verbs, nouns and adjectives than even the other knights could really deal with. Must be the Central Asian influence. But I had forced myself to learn it, because I knew he would want me to speak it, and also because it meant we could have semi-private conversations in public.

"Saddlebags?" he finally said, breaking off from his congested tirade. I fished a spare handkerchief out of my own pocket, wadded it into a ball and threw it at the corner of the room. It bounced off said saddlebags, which he paused to inspect as he picked it up. He grunted and then sniffed violently. I was tempted to tell him to blow his nose, but refrained. He was past thirty, he could take care of himself now.

"Quivers?" he demanded as he buckled his belt around his hips.

I was not going to dignify that with an answer. So I raised my eyebrows and turned away, which did the trick.

Tristan huffed as he shrugged into his long green tunic. "Thank you. And at such short notice…" he broke off to sneeze. "Anyway, Arthur doesn't want you to come. He said as much last night."

"Well too bad." No, even if I didn't have a plausible excuse to follow the boys, I'd be going anyway.

"So how are you going to get past him?"

" _Someone_ has to make sure that the gates open correctly for you all to gallop through in typical swaggering-git style. And that same _someone_ has to make sure that they're _securely closed_ behind you."

"Let me guess, you corrupted Amandus and Mato."

" _Corrupted?_ Not at all, this is as much their idea as mine." And I didn't mention that I'd swayed the grooms over to my way of doing things years ago. Everything is easier when you're all singing from the same hymn sheet.

"You spoke to them about this? Already?" He sounded weary, no longer shocked by my tactics.

"Of course. Any excuse to annoy Arthur one last time."

When phrased that way, I could see the appreciative gleam in his eyes. The knife's edge that I walked meant that while I had narrowly avoided a few whippings and suffered more for my shenanigans. I also dismantled traps and won enormous grins from the knights for the same acts of cold-blooded violence. As Arthur's shadow soldier, I was the one who carried out all the essential extra violence he was not willing to commit for any cause.

This meant Arthur wasn't sure what to make of me.

This was my last hurrah for disrespectability, disobedience and devilry. I intended to make it one for the history books (whenever someone felt like writing them).

"You imp," he said, chiding and warm all at once.

I bounced on my toes, eyebrows raised to make him hurry. He rolled his eyes and finished secreting his knives about his person before grabbing my hand and dragging me out of the room.

Down at the tavern, Verica and Vanora served a hearty meal that was supposed to be our last breakfast ever at the Fort. Honey with nut bread, cured meats, cheese… I took one mouthful of magma-hot porridge and tears welled up in my eyes. And not just because the roof of my mouth was being cooked.

"This…" I paused to take a swig of water. "This is _wonderful._ "

I wasn't prone to tears, not even in private, but right now, the cruelty of the Final Mission cut me deep. It wasn't fair. This was supposed to be our hangover cure after a night of celebration the likes of which would give Arthur nightmares for years and years to come, and make him think twice about drinking ever again.

The probability of our impending violent deaths was overwhelming. We wouldn't all make it back here alive. And I couldn't lose anyone else.

Dagonet's big blue eyes were shiny as we looked at each other in mutual understanding and I felt my anger surge up. It cauterised the anguish and flared like a match in my brain.

Unacceptable. That was the only word for it.

Screw the previous plan. I wasn't following behind with all the things they'd likely forget.

I was going on ahead.

* * *

GAWAIN:

He did not like the awful gleam in his sister's eyes. He couldn't understand why she had gone from miserable to furious so quickly, since none of them had done anything to set her off. He glanced at Tristan, who was usually the culprit for Kation's more abrupt mood swings.

But the scout returned his inquiring look with one of his own. So no clues there. Gawain turned to look around the table as a whole, and everyone else was looking equally nonplussed.

Kation grabbed a freshly baked roll, gouged its soft middle out with her fingers and stuffed meat and cheese into the middle. Then she stood so abruptly that Galahad twitched in surprise. " _Private briefing in the stables_ ," she announced in Sarmatian. " _As soon as you're finished_." And with that, she marched out.

Gawain threw Tristan another, even more bewildered look. Tristan shrugged and returned to contemplating his breakfast. So apparently this had to do with the Final Mission rather than anything between Kation and her… lover.

He didn't want to admit it, but Kation had a devil in her heart that led her to do some very scary things without a shred of remorse. Tristan had a similar devil in him and so like had recognised like very early on. They had decided it was easier to love each other than find out who was more dangerous, and thus joined forces to mete out their weird ways upon everyone else. They shared secrets that made them glance at each other meaningfully. Neither expressed any plans or desires after Tristan's release from servitude. When Gawain had cornered Kation about this a few weeks previously, she had shrugged and looked at her boots. "I'd like to travel the world."

Which sounded decidedly odd. When he'd asked why, she'd said something enigmatic about scholarship and changed the subject. There was a lot he would never understand about her. But she was fiercely loyal and protective of her friends. So when she announced a private briefing, it meant she had devised something outrageous and extraordinary that would be very dangerous but highly effective.

"Oh gods, not more people telling us what to do," Galahad groaned.

"Now be fair, when Kat's running the show we're only seriously injured," Gawain said, rallying in defence of his sister. "No one's died."

Lancelot laughed and nodded. "That is true, but then he is far better at allocating duties and if he hasn't gathered the necessary information himself, he got it from his—uh—" he broke off and eyed Tristan carefully, who stared back with the flat, unfriendly gaze of a wolf. "Um—from Tristan, here."

Tristan resumed eating and, after a long pause, so did everyone else.

Gawain went to Vanora, and was immediately seized by the hair and yanked down so the he stood nose-to-nose with the small woman. "Listen here, you shaggy horse walloper—if Kation doesn't return to the Fort in anything less than perfect condition and happy, I will skin you alive from the feet up. Do I make myself clear?"

Gawain nodded as best he could without losing a fistful of hair and stammered his assurances. Vanora glared at him for a second longer before releasing him. "Run along, then. But remember what I said."

"For the rest of my life," Gawain promised, and meant it too. If anything happened to Kation, he would rather be slowly tortured to death by Tristan in a cold rage than face Vanora. He made his way to the stables in time to see the others were already getting their light armour and gear together.

Kation looked ready to go on a month-long expedition, she was armed to the teeth and her knee-length cloak was flicked back to reveal innumerable hilts of knives bristling about her torso. Two more dull hilts could be seen in her boots. She sat on an upturned bucket and was letting Tristan tie her hair to her scalp in several tight braids. If it were anyone else, at any other time, Gawain would have laughed and teased.

Instead, he felt like running.

Kat saw him, and she started talking. " _Alright, listen up," s_ he said in Sarmatian. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her. " _Arthur fucked up; more than you know. Do not—"_ she added, stabbing a finger at Dagonet, who had opened his mouth to object. " _Do not try to defend him. He could have been smart and negotiated for a better deal, but he lost his temper and reacted impulsively by threatening the bishop. He—fucked—up."_ She sighed dropped her head down, as if exhausted. Tristan stopped braiding her hair to briefly lay his hand across the back of her neck. It revived her and she stood abruptly. " _Which is why for the next fort-eight hours, I will be making the plans. Any objections?"_

Gawain had several, and he could see mutiny brewing on several other faces, but Tristan looked calm and composed as he finished braiding her hair. That was enough for Gawain and he heaved a put-upon sigh. _"If it's good enough for Tristan, it's good enough for me."_ He winked at his sister, who grinned back.

" _Alright then_." She clapped her hands together. " _North of the Wall lies miles and miles of glens, mountains and moorland that are impossible to navigate without local knowledge. However, I have checked the ancient maps and there will probably be the remains of a Roman road that lead north to the abandoned Antonine Wall. You won't be going that far, but the estate will lie along its length. Tristan, you're the route-finder and I'll go over the map with you later."_

Which probably meant that Kation would draw him a copy and make him take it with him. She knew what they were all like with navigation. And asking for directions was not only in direct contravention of their manly code, it was also lethal in this scenario.

" _The locals, as you all know, are out to kill us in the most painful ways they can devise. Try to avoid them by not drawing attention to yourselves. That includes yelling at the top of your lungs at every opportunity."_ She tactfully did not look at Bors or say his name, but everyone was in no doubt as to who the last remark had been addressed. " _Arthur will invariably be distracted by endangered individuals and imperilled kittens. So try to make sure he does not see them. If you were not going north of the Wall, this would be a simple extraction. But of course, nothing is ever simple when Arthur thinks he's in charge. Mitigate. Galahad, distract him with questions about fairness and equality. Dagonet, make him feel guilty with sad sighs and mournful looks south or east. Tristan, keep him scared of every shadow and tree and keep everyone moving. Lancelot—flirt like you've never flirted before in your whole life. I want the tortured, manly passion to be so strong even the Woads might smell it from their burrows." _

That got a round of laughs from the others, even Lancelot chuckled and blushed as he stared at his boots. No one had missed the way that Arthur's relationship with his Second In Command toed the line between brotherhood and something more 'mushy' as Kation called it.

" _Here's the usual allocations: Dagonet and Bors, you're the heavy-hitters so I want you on the rear and front defence. Dagonet, pack your sword and axe. Bors, you too, not just knives_." Bors grumbled but acquiesced. " _And everyone must have their bows. I've packed every serviceable arrow I could find and you all have the quivers attached to your saddles. Tristan, you have two. Gawain, Galahad, you're on wing defence. Do not get distracted or start bickering, or so help me gods, I will peel you both like the turnip heads you are."_ She smiled grimly and then threw a hand back to thwack Tristan in the solar plexus. _"And you, oh silent one, are on scouting duty, as usual. So…"_

" _Ride on ahead!"_ they all chorused, the mood lifting considerably at a free joke at their formidable scout's expense.

" _And finally_ ," Kation continued. " _Lancelot. You have the most important job of all: you are never to lose control of Arthur. Question everything he does if it seems even vaguely illogical. Be smart. The same goes for the rest of you: keep Arthur moving and not thinking about anything except speed. Any loss in momentum will be fatal. No defiant last stands, no daring rescues, no stopping for anything. Go in, get the kid, get out alive. Any heroes will answer to me." _

_"What about you?"_ Lancelot asked.

Kation's smile turned from 'Grim' to 'Lethal'. It had more teeth and less of the humour that the rest of them could relate to. _"I'm going to take a look at that Saxon army."_

* * *

 **So, you like? Please leave a review.  
Cheers! ~L. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone!**

 **Good news! This is a long chapter. I have written most of this while watching the film to transcribe the dialogue. I had so much fun writing this, it's been a great way to let off some steam.**

 **Warnings : Swearing, not enough violence. Threatening of bishops. Borderline sociopathic characters. Guinevere.  
Also, the Narrator and Editor are in-fiction characters. Not me (L.) talking to you, but Kation and her Editor talking to you. Feel special that they're breaking the 4th wall, because it's a damn headache for me. **

**Disclaimers : Only the OCs are mine. Sadly making no money out of this. **

* * *

The result was inevitable.

Tristan gripped my shoulders and spun me around so I could appreciate his glare. " _No_."

Dear reader, never has a word been filled with such horrible promise as that single syllable. Gawain was yelling incoherently behind me, as were the others. Amazingly enough, it was Bors, the human precursor to all foghorns and megaphones, who spoke up in my defence.

" _Enough!_ " he yelled, effectively silencing everyone else. "This is Kation we're talking about. He's a scrawny little git, but the lad's un-killable! We've all seen him come out of frays that would kill anyone else."

This was untrue, because I _had_ been killed by the enemy and then come back to life. It usually happened when I was scouting with Tristan, and since I was the sneaky agile one, I couldn't always fight my way out of trouble. Tristan's hands tightened on my shoulders and I winced. What was it with the murderous massage? Dagonet glanced at me, then shrugged and nodded. "He's got as much right as the rest of us to risk his life."

That ought to have been enough. Dagonet rarely made such firm pronouncements, but when he did everyone else fell into line. But not today. Not on this mission.

Gawain uttered a roar of rage and turned away, only to smack into Jols, who had just come into the stables. My brother tried to shove the quartermaster aside, but Jols caught his elbow and held him fast in a brief, tight hug. Gawain stiffened and then sagged. I wished I could have been the one to do it, the one trying to give some comfort—but that would give the game away. And after ten years of carefully preserved secrets, to reveal the truth now would be bad.

I leaned back against Tristan and sighed. "Look, I'm not going to try to fight them," I said, drawing attention back to me. "I'm just going to shadow them, let you know if they've caught your trail or not—that sort of thing. Strictly reconnaissance."

"You say that every time, and every time you come back with _souvenirs,"_ Lancelot said, looking resigned.

'Souvenirs' was our code for trophies. Mine were normally weapons, although the odd severed head or body part occasionally found its way onto Arthur's desk. I have no idea how that happens, and it's a mystery that may never be solved…

 _[Author's Note: My editor is giving me a Look that suggests I should stop lying to my learned readers. But I know you're all intelligent and can read between the lines on this point.]_

 _[Editor's Note: The author has spent far too many years feigning innocence with regards to the recreational psychological torture of the Once and Future King of the Britons. I am not buying it, and neither should you.]_

I suppose it's the equivalent of owning cats that bring home dead mice/rats/rabbits/birds, etc. and they expect praise and gratitude when they deposit the cooling body tenderly onto the pillow next to your head.

I grinned at them all. "Don't worry—I've got the easy job, after all." This was true. I wasn't going to be hampered by Arthur bawling sentimental drivel at me whenever I tried to do my bloody job during this mission. "Now, the main weapon in our manipulation—ahem, I beg your pardon, I mean _persuasion_ of Arthur is passive-aggressive guilt. Use it shamelessly. Our fearless leader will be along in a moment, so everyone has to look really reluctant and resentful. No one put your armour on, or reveal you've got your kit ready to go. Galahad, get on your horse and rile him up—and give Arthur that look you do so well. The judgemental one."

Galahad nodded and went off to check his tack. His horse was particularly stroppy (much like the owner) and so if the lad was in a mood then the horse was going to be two shades shy of ballistic once Galahad parked his arse in the saddle. Cue the equestrian fireworks display.

"And perhaps some weapons could be polished and sharpened meaningfully as you all sit around, pretending to get ready?" I directed them to various perches and places that would maximise their intimidation factor. I really ought to have been in the theatre.

"And I'm almost certain that the bishop's going to turn up with his little pet weasel to bless you all. If that happens, Dag, I want you to do something rude to him—yes, you—" I insisted, at Dagonet's look of surprise. "If it's anyone else, Arthur won't be surprised. But he expects you to behave. Don't."

Dagonet nodded.

"And remember: Resentful silence and nasty flat stares."

"Not difficult," Jols mumbled, slapping Gawain on the back.

They took up their positions, all of them drawing their swords and posing with them. The angry testosterone set up an almighty stink. I climbed onto the highest part of the stacks to get a good view of my stage and actors.

Arthur appeared, wearing his shiny, jangling 'Mission To Go' armour—I swear to the Green-Skinned-God that he has armour for every occasion, even sleepwear—and strode over to us. Galahad, in an excellent display of horsemanship, wheeled his crazy horse around in a wide, cantering arc that Arthur attempted to ignore, even when Galahad tried to cut him off by cantering right in front of him before dismounting to join the others in their silent glaring. Jols took the reins of the gelding, whispering soothing things to him as the others assembled.

The Damn Fool Commander kept his line and headed straight for us. But before any rousing, romantic speech could pour forth and bore us all to tears, the bishop arrived through the back door. He was escorted by two centurions—talk about paranoid.

Although he had good reason to worry. He looked at the knights, none of whom said anything as they stared back at him.

Bors drew his long sword with a rasping shriek of steel and laid it across his knees.

Gawain polished a dagger I had given him three years ago as a birthday present.

Lancelot slouched with one of his swords resting on his shoulder.

Tristan ignored everyone in favour of inspecting his sword in minute detail.

Then Dagonet outdid himself by shoulder-shoving the bishop as he re-joined us. And as he did so, he looked back at Germanus to impart a nasty look that said very clearly 'You're in my way'.

The bishop moved after Dagonet, clearly intent on making something of the matter, then Bors stood up, hefting his sword and smirking down at the bishop. Germanus stopped abruptly and changed his mind. He turned to Arthur, as if this had been his plan all along, and announced:

"To represent the Holy Court, my trusted secretary Horton…" he looked around. "Horton?" The Weasel stepped smartly forward. "Will accompany you on your quest."

Arthur and Jols looked like Germanus had just offered the Weasel's services as a male prostitute. Jols looked at Arthur incredulously, as if to say 'Really? This noob?'

"Jols find him a horse."

Gawain slammed his knife into the wooden shelf by his side, making his feelings on the matter clear.

Arthur carefully did not look at him.

Jols turned to the Weasel. "This way."

Lancelot glanced up at Dagonet, knowing what came next.

"God's speed as you fulfil your duty to Rome." The bishop actually looked pleased as he said this. And of course, he had every right to feel smug—he'd barely had to put any effort into steamrollering Arthur into obeisance.

But the guilt was strong in Arthur now that he'd correctly gauged the mood of the knights and he stepped closer to the bishop to say: "My duty is also to my men."

The bishop smiled, raising his eyebrows in a condescending 'Oh really? You've done a fabulous job of sticking up for them so far' sort of way and nodded. "Then get them home."

Oooooh, talk about lemon juice in the papercut! I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the look of pitiful resentment on Arthur's face as he wheeled away to see to his horse.

Everyone began to get ready with a show of the utmost reluctance. Some urge towards self-preservation kept Arthur from commenting, which just goes to show that even he had some latent survival instincts lurking in the back of his near-empty skull.

I pulled on my thicker gloves and fetched Aritei from our room, carrying her downstairs on my left fist and letting her peck at my finger. I left her on the back of Numa's saddle—a placement that she had been trained to accept, but she only tolerated when the horse was standing still. Then I helped Jols affix shields to each saddle and load the pack horse with the necessary food and supplies (extra arrows!). The Weasel would be leading the pack horse, because he could be made to be useful. This guy's arrogance was only contextual—I had seen him weeping in fear beneath the bishop's carriage. I had looked at that man and knew he was the type who would die first in a horror film.

This conjured up an image of the knights chasing the Weasel through the woods with chainsaws while cackling maniacally. Then the Weasel morphed into Tristan, being pursued by the others who were being urged on by Arthur, who was clutching a wedding plan itinerary in the hand not wielding the bullwhip. All to the tune of Santa Esmeralda's _Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood._

My helpfulness spent, I went back to fetch Aritei and watched the others get ready, completely unaware of the awesome music video playing in my brain at that moment.

 _"Baby, do you understand me now?  
"Sometimes I feel a little mad  
"Well don't you know that no-one alive  
"Can always be an angel  
"When things go wrong I seem to be bad,  
"Cause I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,  
"Oh Lord, don't let me be misunderstood.  
"If I seem edgy, I want you to know  
"That I never mean to take it out on you  
"Life has it's problems and I get my share  
"And that's one thing I never mean to do  
"Cause I'm just a soul whose intentions are good,  
"Oh Lord, don't let me be misunderstood." _

I sang under my breath to Aritei, who gave me her typical goggle-eyed stare that said 'feed me or I'll attack'. The lyrics, with their perversely upbeat tune, were so appropriate that I couldn't stop the soft laugh that followed the song. It was the scary psycho laugh that never failed to make the more sensitive ones blanche.

"You find something about this sacred mission amusing?" said a loathsome, oily voice behind me.

I made no move to hide my weapons as I glanced over at the approaching bishop. Nor did I straighten up from the column I was leaning against. Aritei shifted and pecked at her jesses. I chucked her under the chin and then ruffled her breast feathers, distracting her into attacking my hand. "I'm just expressing my delight at being allowed in such august company." This is exactly what I was _not_ supposed to do. But everyone else got to have their bit of fun, so I would take mine.

"You are Arthur's secretary, are you not?" he said it casually, but his dark eyes were as sharp as flints, taking in details of my appearance. His eyes rested on Aritei for a long moment.

"Amongst other things," I said it in such a way that I inferred Arthur was taking advantage of me. Sexually.

I smirked in response to the bishop's dancing eyebrows as he tried to work that one out. Then he smiled, as if he hadn't heard all the innuendos I'd packed into those three words. "I saw your filing system in Arthur's quarters," he said. "Most impressive."

I tossed my hair over my shoulder with a flick of the head, a studied trick and a dismissive shrug all at once. "I'm flattered."

"In fact, I was so impressed that I was wondering if you didn't deserve a more prestigious position," Bishop Germanus said. "Arthur is going nowhere fast—"

"Except north of the Wall," I interjected.

The bishop's smile was like a crocodile that had just spotted a particularly short-sighted antelope coming down to the river for a drink. "I meant politically," he said. "As you well know. And your talents should not be wasted on a doomed outpost such as this." He gestured with distaste to the barracks. "Why are you with these pagans, anyway?"

Ooh, getting down to business so quickly? I let my smirk grow, tugging my mouth to one side. There were so many things I could have said. I decided to play the game a little longer. "I must have temporarily taken leave of my senses," I said. "Except, of course, for the fact that these are Sarmatian knights."

The bishop frowned. "I know that they are famous—"

I dropped the smirk and straightened up from the column so abruptly that the bishop flinched and Aritei gave a shriek of protest that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. "You know very little." I said, taking a single, deliberate step towards him as the hawk flapped in agitation. I paid her no mind. "These are Lucius Artorius Castus' best and luckiest warriors from a peerless company of knights. They have survived everything that this land and the Empire has thrown at them. Their armour, their weapons, their skills—all of these things are ultimate statements of their right to kill anyone who gets in their way."

The bishop wasn't smiling anymore. Not even a little bit. His eyes flicked to Aritei again, as if afraid I would launch her at him. But I was hardly going to risk my bird on this idiot man's face. She might catch something nasty from the blood.

"Six heathen professional killers of men," I said, tipping my head back to the knights who were yanking on their armour. "Versus one man of God." I pointed my finger at the bishop, walking slowly up to him. "I realise it's a bit uneven, but that's why I need six of them. And you—as I said before—know very little. Because if you do something to endanger the knights and your name isn't Lucius Artorius Castus, then I'm the one you get to see." By now, I was standing so close that I could have head-butted him. Instead, I leaned forward and whispered into his ear: "Just once."

Then I stepped past him and strolled over to Tristan. He was by his horse Tagiytei, but at my approach, he turned to pull me into a hug. I had to hold my left arm out of the way, because Aritei would throw a fit if she was squished between us.

" _Making friends?"_ he asked in Sarmatian, pinching Aritei's beak and gently wiggling her head back and forth. She bristled at the manhandling. Was he talking to me, or the bird?

 _"More like promising the bishop that I'm going to kill him—to keep him from thinking he's got it all his own way."_ I replied, deciding he'd asked me the question.

" _We're going to get him, right?"_ Tristan said.

 _"Oh yeah,"_ I confirmed.

 _"Jols says he offered Arthur a fortune for you once he saw your filing system."_

I was appalled. " _Why didn't he take it? Then it would have been so easy to kill the bishop! And I could have framed the Weasel for everything!"_

Tristan shook his head sadly. We both knew it was far too late to expect Arthur to wise up. I felt Tristan nuzzle the skin behind my ear and I sighed in appreciation, letting the tension bleed out of me.

" _Every time a real opportunity comes along for us to fix things, Arthur intercepts it and kills it."_ I said. " _We're going to need a back-up plan. Maybe two."_

Tristan rumbled his agreement and after tying Aritei onto Tagiytei's saddle, I kissed him. We were shielded by the horse, so I took the opportunity to thoroughly disarrange his hair. It made me smile to see Tristan looking like he'd been attacked by a lunatic with hairspray.

" _Looking good,"_ I said.

" _You'll have plenty of time to think of those back-up plans as you ride to the Saxons,"_ Tristan said. _"Don't forget to come back and meet me north of the estate after you've found them,"_ he added.

I rolled my eyes and nodded. That was the routine that we had perfected years ago. We got Numa ready together, which was nice, then I went to see to Gawain.

 _"Oh, it's you,"_ Gawain said, sounding sullen.

" _Hey,"_ I said, wagging a finger at him. _"Don't grump at me, I'm here to say 'I love you', and 'See you later', and 'For the gods' sake be smart'."_

Gawain's frown deepened, but he wrapped me up in a brief, man-to-man hug that included some wallops on the back and harrumphing. " _The same goes for you, imp,_ " he said. _"You're leaving now?"_

" _Ahead of the rush,"_ I said. _"I'll leave it up to you and Tris' to say my goodbyes to everyone else."_

After that, I collected Aritei from Tagiytei's saddle and led Numa out of the barracks to the Fort's main gate.

No one said anything or acknowledged me in any way, they were used to me leaving at odd hours and returning dishevelled, filthy with blood and mud. I walked beside Numa all the way to the huge gates that permitted entrance to the north. They had all the tactical military defensive capabilities of a cat flap.

Mato and Amandus—now full-grown men with manly beards and wives and three children between them—saw me coming and waved enthusiastically.

"Hey, kitten!" they chorused.

I walked up to them. "Everything ready?" I asked.

"Of course!" Amandus said, as if I'd offended him. "Though it's taken us a while to get the brace-beam out of its hold."

Mato shook his head. "It had rusted in, so we had to take a mallet to it."

"But the draughts heaved the gates open, at last." Amandus finished. It usually took both of them to relay any information.

"Thanks—I knew you could do it. Kiss the girls for me?" I said, with a cheeky wink. Because they were convinced Tristan and I were the screaming queens of the Fort, I was the beloved gay best friend of a lot of women in the area, including Amandus and Mato's wives.

It was a very, very weird status quo.

"Of course," Mato said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Now away with you and give them hell."

* * *

JENNY:

At first she'd been utterly terrified and panicky when she had woken up stark naked in a freezing cold forest surrounded by leering men painted blue and wearing leathers and animal hide. Their weaponry looked like it was from the freaking Stone Age, but the men held them like they meant business. She tried to cover herself with her hands and was very grateful when one of them offered her a rough woollen blanket.

"Th-thanks," she muttered through chattering teeth as the rain lashed down, plastering her hair to her skull.

The warriors had wordlessly lead her on a painful long trek through the forest. Her feet were cut and bleeding by the time they got back to the silent men's encampment. They hadn't spoken to her the entire time and that annoyed Jenny. Surely they ought to have been surprised to find her there? She was ushered into a tent and an old woman offered her some cold cured meat and water. As she ate, the woman tended to her torn feet and then handed Jenny some rather smelly but clean clothes. More wool and leather. Lovely. No shoes, though. She fell asleep early, after briefly talking to the old woman, whose name turned out to be Carrach. Carrach had never heard the name 'Jennifer' before, and settled for pronouncing it 'Gwenhwyfar', with a hard 'G' sound and a sort of breathy mumble of the other syllables. Infuriating, but good enough for now.

Then an old man—well, okay, he was like fifty or something—visited her the next day. "My name," he said solemnly. "Is Merlin."

And from that day forward, 'Gwenhwyfar' became a Woad woman. She knew that she had travelled back in time, but had no idea _how_ , or _why_. Maybe it was like _Outlander_. She waited for the hot guy in the kilt to turn up and smoulder at her, but it didn't happen. Instead, she learned how to forage, cook, to make clothes (although everyone agreed she wasn't very good at it), build fires and pitch tents.

Then she saw the other girls practising with weapons, she was discouraged. "Not yet," they would say, and send her off to gather firewood. Eventually, when she had built up enough muscle, they began to teach her how to use weapons. She made friends among the tribe and even got adopted by a family. As their daughter, she gained a real identity with the tribe and was soon just another face. For two years she was happy, she felt like she belonged. She hated the Romans and what they had done to her new family.

Then it all changed when she went out hunting. Their band tracked the deer to a patch of forest that overlooked a Roman settlement.

She didn't know the first thing about history, but vaguely recalled classes she had been forced to sit through at school as a little girl. Romans had made it to Britain. She had certainly been sent back in time, but some strange enchantment had meant she could talk to the Woads as easily as if she was speaking English.

In fact, she thought she was still speaking English until she was captured by the Romans. She couldn't understand what they were saying. Nor did she have the sixth sense for danger that they others had been born with. So when the attack came she was too slow to react, despite having honed her fighting skills to a more than acceptable degree. She was clubbed across the back of the head and woke up in a dungeon with several others.

Over the next few— _days? Weeks? Months?—_ she was beaten and interrogated. They tried to convert her to Christianity, which was never going to happen. She was Jewish, damn it!

She fought until she could fight no more. Then she slipped into the depths of her mind, where they couldn't reach her, and silently prayed to God for deliverance.

* * *

TRISTAN:

He brought up the rear of their cavalcade. Arthur, in typical majestic style, had galloped out of the Fort and all the way through the gates that were opened with equally dramatic style. He insisted on being at the front the whole way, and eventually Tristan had to overtake the others before coming up behind Arthur to shout directions at their hapless commander.

As Kation would have said with heavy sarcasm: ' _Glamorous'_.

They rode along the hill ridge, heading north until they reached a wood. Then they were forced to follow a Woad trail through the dense undergrowth. Because of his extensive experience with Woad war bands and their tactics, he knew what to look for.

They were surrounded.

Kation had taken the same route but there was no sign of a fight, so perhaps she had made it through unscathed, unnoticed. Which was more than likely, because his beloved took care to muffle the chink of tack, harness and weaponry. She could move almost silently if she was walking the horse, which was a serious advantage for a scout. Tristan had taken pains to do the same, although it did little good when in the company of Bors (who was physically incapable of whispering) and Arthur (whose shiny metal breastplate was more visible than a flaming brand).

A storm was whipping the trees into a fury, thunder and lightning blocking out any sounds Tristan might have taken as warning of an impending attack. Arthur led them at a walk along the trail, looking up into the trees—for what, Tristan had no fucking idea. Did the man think he could smell the Woads on the wind?

Finally, he could take no more of it. If Arthur really didn't know already, then Tristan was going to have to say the obvious. Again. "Woads—they're tracking us."

"Where?" Arthur asked softly.

Tristan had to suck in a breath to calm down before replying. "Everywhere."

Arthur continued to move them forward, glaring at shadows. Tristan kept pace beside him, not bothering to look for the enemy, who would make their presence known any moment—

A tangle of thorn-filled ropes shot up across the path and arrows attached to even more spiked ropes rained down on them from the trees.

—now.

Arthur did the expected thing, wheeled the convoy about and raced back down the same path. Only to be cut off again by even more barbed ropes.

Lancelot yelled down the line: "Get back!" which was echoed by Bors so loudly that the Saxon army should have heard it.

They turned again and Galahad's horse was almost impaled upon spiked lattices that sprang up from the ground cover of dead leaves. They were being driven into a killing pit. Tristan reined in Tagiytei as arrows flew about their heads.

Thank the gods the Woads were terrible shots.

"This way!" Arthur yelled, leading the escape once more. Although since he did not know the way—unlike Tristan, who had committed the map to memory—it was unsurprising that he galloped into a pack of spear-wielding blue maniacs who drove them—

"Baaaack!" Bors screamed at them.

Again.

Tristan was really bored of this. Especially when they ended up back where they started, facing a line of pissed-off blue archers. He drew his bow and prepared to kill at least a few in the trees. He felt the stiff white goose fletchings under his fingers and sent a brief mental prayer of love and hope on the wind to Kation. After they were all slaughtered, he would revive and go North to help her as best he could.

Arthur drew his sword, clearly intending to do—what? He couldn't cut through the ropes and do battle, so was the gesture symbolic? It had to be, since there was no option for any alternative.

Then the Angry-Angry Woad (as they had laughingly dubbed him during drinks at the tavern on what was supposed to be their first night of freedom), the one that Arthur had oh-so-stupidly spared in the nasty little skirmish yesterday, appeared behind the thorny barricade. Clearly he had an aching need to shoot Arthur in the face. Well, he'd have to get in line. Tristan switched targets to the Woad who he could see was aiming for Gawain. Kation would never forgive him if he didn't at least try to save her brother.

But the strange thing was that they held their fire, as if savouring the moment. Tristan could not believe that this was the way things would end.

Then there was the long, low call of a Woad horn—a signal to shoot? Or retreat?

The Angry-Angry Woad glanced away from Arthur, but then readied the shot. Tristan almost let fly his own arrow when the horn sounded again.

This was a retreat. Tristan could feel it in his bones.

"What are you waiting for?!" Gawian yelled.

The Angry-Angry Woad lowered his bow, looking pissed off. Then all the Woads retreated back into the undergrowth and disappeared as silently as they had arrived. Everyone waited a good long moment for them to return.

Tristan, as usual, led the charge for common sense and gently eased the bowstring, catching the arrow in his fingers. Then he returned both to their respective holsters on his saddle. If the scout puts away their weapons, then there's no immediate danger.

" _Enish!"_ Dagonet growled. "Devil ghosts!"

"Why would they not attack?" Galahad asked.

"Merlin doesn't want us dead," Arthur said.

Oh, so Arthur had found that small field report Kation left for him on his desk the night before? She told Tristan about the whole thing last night after they had made love.

 _"So I walked back into the trees, ready to have a crack at any stragglers, and came upon a whole line of the blue bastards on the spine of the hill. I expected to be filled with arrows—"_

 _Tristan frowned and pulled her closer, so that she was half-lying on him. Even though she always came back from the dead, he hated watching her die. Hated the pain and fear that always filled her eyes before she faded away._

 _"But instead, Merlin had just waved at them and they all walked away, down the other side of the hill. He stared down at me and made that funny hand sign—you know the one, it's the gesture of respect between two warriors. I returned it, more out of reflex than anything, and then he nodded and left too."_

 _"Odd," Tristan said. "Very odd. Perhaps it's because he knows we were leaving."_

 _"I hope so, but I don't trust that old buzzard—he's too canny. He's probably got a plan that's running at an angle of interception to ours." She stretched and snuggled closer. "I didn't go after them, because that gesture was pretty much a truce."_

Kation said that she had told Arthur the bare bones of the encounter, along with the suspicion that the Woad leader was planning something. It was a rather significant miracle that he had actually read it and remembered it.

Tristan thought it was rather unfair that Arthur was only starting to improve now.

The rest of the journey was completely uneventful, which was ultimate proof that the Woads had a bigger and probably nastier plan for them. When Tristan floated this idea past the others, even going so far as to mention Kat's strange encounter with the old man, it was received with cautious acceptance. Despite sympathising with their predicament, none of the Sarmatians liked Woads, not even slightly, so the idea that the blue-painted people had plans for them beyond wholesale slaughter was pretty nightmarish.

They arrived at the Honorius estate around midday the next day, everyone in a thoroughly awful mood. Even Arthur was all business, particularly after being forced to dissuade Horton the Weasel's attempts to bring everyone together for group prayer.

They cantered up to the villa, only for the gates to be slammed shut.

"Who are you?"

"I am Arthur Castus, Commander of the Sarmatian Knights, sent by Bishop Germanus of Rome!" Arthur called up. "Open the gate."

That deceptively mild tone ought to have sent them running, but the officer only sent one of his soldiers down to announce their presence.

The villagers had rushed over, and were crowding about at a safe distance, staring and whispering. Tristan felt a prickle of unease at the sight of their greyish skin and thin frames.

Then the gates swung open and a small, fat man in a toga hurried out. It had to be Honorius, only a Roman would wear a dress in this freezing climate. "It is a wonder you have come!" he exclaimed, heading straight for Arthur. "Good Jesus, Arthur and his knights!" he reached forward to pat Galahad's horse, but the lad wisely reined his horse back. It was a grave insult to try to touch a Sarmatian's horse without their express permission.

"You have fought the Woads?" Honorius continued. "Vile creatures."

"Our orders are to evacuate you immediately," Arthur said.

Honorius smiled in polite disbelief and laughed slightly. "That is impossible."

Arthur frowned at him. "Which one is Alecto?"

"I am Alecto," said a pale, dark-haired youth who was standing up on the battlements above the gate. Beside him stood an older woman in a red dress, probably his mother.

"Alecto is my son," said Honorius, drawing attention back to himself. "And everything we have is here, in the land given to us by the Pope of Rome."

"Well, you're about to give it to the Saxons," Lancelot said, trying to hurry things along.

"They're invading from the north," Arthur said.

Honorius looked unhappy. "Then Rome will send an army!"

"They have: us," Arthur said.

Tristan was starting to feel rather proud of his commander. This brevity, this focus—it was a really refreshing change.

"We leave as soon as you're packed."

Maybe he didn't want to hang around so that Merlin's trap could be sprung around them.

"I refuse to leave," Honorius said quietly, but they all heard it. Alecto and his mother had come down from the wall and were now walking up to them.

Arthur remained silent, adamantly staring down at the Roman aristocrat. The fat man averted his gaze and saw the peasants standing around gawping at the exchange. "Go back to work! All of you!" he barked. The soldiers advanced upon them, shoving and kicking to enforce the order.

It told the knights a lot about how this estate was run, and they exchanged silent glances to communicate this understanding. Arthur watched this, and Tristan could just _feel_ the outrage rolling off him. He dismounted, but fortunately left his sword in its scabbard on the saddle as he stalked over to Honorius. The shorter man took a couple of instinctive steps back as Arthur bore down on him like a thundercloud.

"If I fail to bring you and your son back, my men can never leave this land. So you're coming with me, if I have to tie you to my horse and drag you all the way to Hadrian's Wall myself." He said it all in an undertone, through clenched teeth, but the knights heard it. "My lord," he added as an afterthought.

Honorius' expression spoke volumes to Tristan, who could see that Arthur had insulted the arrogant little man's sense of dignity.

Arthur's attention turned to the woman in red. "Lady, my knights are hungry."

This was true. They had only packed enough rations to get to the estate and had been relying upon Honorius to provide them with food for the return journey.

The woman stretched out a thin hand to touch her husband's elbow and he dismissed her with a quiet "Go." After shooting a look of intense dislike and resentment at Arthur, he then followed her back into the villa, with a sharp command for his son to follow him.

Arthur looked around him, frowning at how quiet and miserable the peasants' village seemed to be.

"Come, let's go," Bors said, suggesting they retreat and wait for the family to meet them on the road.

Arthur did not respond, but looked to his right and fixed upon a man who had been tied beneath a frame, stripped to the waist and hanging from his wrists.

The knights all followed his gaze.

Oh _no_. Now he would be unstoppable.

With a look of moral outrage stamped all over his handsome features, Arthur strode back to his horse and drew his sword before striding towards the bound man.

Lancelot rolled his eyes. Dagonet sighed in resignation. Gawain shook his head slightly. Galahad looked to Bors, incredulous. Bors looked skywards for a second, sighed and drew his sword. He was volunteering to be the one to guard Arthur's back as their stupid commander blindly rushed in to enact Justice. They usually took it in turns by drawing their sword.

As Arthur strode towards the captive man, he was hounded by some peasant man, who was clearly a huge fan. It was embarrassing and boring to listen to, so Tristan tuned it out in favour of watching the soldiers, who looked to be the kind of cowardly bullies he had always loathed.

Bors dismounted and made to start after Arthur, when a man caught him by the shoulder and asked him if he was from Rome.

"From Hell," Bors said, completely straight-faced. The man backed away, looking shocked, and Bors hurried after Arthur. The rest of the rescue party stayed on their horses and did not talk, not to each other and certainly not to these mouth-breathing, inbred yokels.

"This is going to take all damn day," Gawain said.

"This is going to end badly," Galahad added, sounding even more morose than usual.

Tristan decided that he would scout the road south and announced his plan to Jols while the other knights went to provide back-up for Arthur's justice-and-freedom routine. "We need to know where those Saxons have got to," he said.

"Give Kation a five from me," Jols replied with a grin.

Kation had introduced 'low-fives' and 'high-fives' some time ago and they had been adopted with great enthusiasm by the knights and their retinue.

With a harrumph, he rode back down the road and as soon as he hit the trees, he turned Tagiytei to the north and hunted for signs of Kation.

Aritei trying to land on his head was his clue.

"Aaargh! Bloody bird!" He fended her off and she flapped madly until she landed on his wrist. "Where's Kat?" he asked her.

The hawk blinked back at him.

Fine, then.

He kept heading north, circling the Honorius estate's fields and pasture land until he hit a very dense section of woodland to the north west. There he caught the faintest scent of smoke and honed in on it until he came upon a tiny clearing made by a huge oak. Kation was sitting underneath it, feeding twigs into a fire. Numa was browsing in the undergrowth, covered in a blanket, while Kation was huddled in a cloak. She looked exhausted, but still smoothly got to her feet as Tristan appeared. She didn't seem hurt.

Tristan launched Aritei into the air and knew she'd find a tree to roost in for the moment. Then he leapt off Tagiytei and strode over to Kation, gathering her into a tight hug that she returned.

"Hurt?" he asked.

"No, you?"

"No."

"How long do we have?" she asked.

"A couple of hours, at least," he said, and told her about Arthur's latest peasant saving exploits.

Kation looked unamused. "He's still technically in charge… this is so typical. It's like he wants us to fail."

Kation drew him back to her fire and they sat against the oak, side-by-side and holding hands.

"So, tell me about the Saxons," he said.

"It's less than ideal," Kation said, not meeting his eyes as she prodded the fire. "They've got a local guide—a traitor who is showing them the quickest way. I didn't get close enough to give you details, because I'm not that stupid. They're a real war band, though—just men, all heavily armed and with no provisions. They're taking everything they need from the villages they sack and then they destroy everything they can't carry."

"And the villagers?"

"What do you think?" Kation said, her voice bitter. "They're already outflanking the estate to the east and by the time you're ready to leave, they'll have taken the south road too."

Tristan let loose a string of expletives and Kat nodded in agreement. She let her head fall onto his shoulder.

"What are we going to do? We can't make it to the sea to take ships down to Eboracum, and we can't fight our way through the Saxon army either."

Kation frowned and closed her eyes. "I'm trying to see the map in my mind," she said softly. "Just be quiet for a minute, please."

Tristan put his arm around her shoulders and waited. Kation could retain this kind of information. Tristan needed to see the lay of the land, to ride the trails in order to remember and know it. Kation could look at maps, or listen to directions given by another, and find her way through a strange kind of instinct.

When the silence dragged on too long, he finally spoke. "West seems to be the only way."

Kation's eyes snapped open and she glared at him. "Straight into the heart of Woad territory? We're holding a wolf by the ears. I'm trying to think of a better route. Now please be quiet and stop trying to help."

She softened the words and reassured the worry with a kiss. "Rest, I'm going to think on it," she said.

Tristan sighed and curled up on the only slightly damp ground, resting his head on her lap. She began to hum a tiny lullaby tune he knew was from another world as she carded her fingers through his hair. Then she leaned back against the tree and sank deep into her mind, that gentle humming kept going and lulled him into a light doze—the first real rest he'd had since the night before last.

He woke to the sensation of her hands squeezing his arm. "Awake, sleepyhead," she crooned and bent to kiss his temple. He stretched and grumbled wordlessly. His cold was not improved by the worsening weather.

"Figured it out?" he asked.

"Yes. And calculated how much time we have."

"Tell me."

"Take them east," she said. "There's a road through the mountains that will cross behind the Saxons. You can follow it all the way back to the Wall. The bad news is that there's a lake. If you're lucky it will be frozen and you can try to cross the ice. If not, then you'll have to drag them along the shoreline. Only on foot, because the carriages and carts won't make it. The trees are too thick and the hill is too steep."

"How do you know this?" Tristan asked, sitting up. Feeling suspicious.

Kation shifted and averted her gaze. "The maps I memorised were filled in using local knowledge that we bought."

" _We?"_ he repeated.

"It was my idea, but I did tell Kahedin—"

Tristan's calm deserted him. "I'm going to kill him!" he growled, springing to his feet.

"Tris—" Kation said, her voice almost a moan. "Not now, please—"

"No!" Tristan said, his hand slashing at her in a negative, silencing her. "No—you—he—!" he swallowed down the panic. "He kept it from us all that you went _north of the Wall!_ "

She hung her head. "Just once," she whispered. "You all thought I was going to Eboracum on one of those semi-regular trips for supplies. I went on foot as a travelling doctor, and no one harms doctors. You know that."

Tristan didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to have another nightmare of Kation walking into Hell with her eyes wide open, hands steady and steps sure. Protecting him from it, knowing that she could survive it, could take whatever happened and keep going. She could improvise and survive. His love for her was a great and terrible thing—it drove him to acts of madness. Just loving her was madness.

"And?" he demanded.

Kation did not flare up at him. She didn't get angry, nor was she upset and meek. She was just quiet and perhaps a little guilty. "What I couldn't scout myself, I asked about. I drew maps and the locals helped me fill them in. These were not Woads—no blue paint in sight. These were just ordinary villagers—as normal as the ones who live around the Fort." She was not lying to him. "The kind of people who the Saxons are murdering."

"Why didn't you take me with you? Why didn't you even _tell_ me?" he asked, falling to his knees in front of her.

"I didn't say anything because I knew you would worry. I also knew you would insist on coming with me. And you couldn't be missed—they need you so much, and they don't even realise it. They don't need me. I'm spare. I'm helpful, but I'm not essential. You are. You need to stay close to them for a time yet."

Occasionally they had these sorts of insights. Not at the same level as a fully-trained shaman, but they had instincts that they couldn't explain. They accepted them, but didn't' have to like them.

She reached out a hand to him and Tristan took it. There was no other option. He had bound his life and fate to hers, stronger than any earthly marriage and sealed by a god.

"Don't think this is over," Tristan said. "But we have to move now."

Kation nodded and gripped his hand more tightly. "I'll keep tracking the Saxons. Try to get the Woads to booby-trap them. Listen for the drums—if you hear them, it means they're too close for comfort and fighting may be your only option. They aren't fast, but they have good stamina."

"No, come to join us once you know if they're going to visit this estate to ransom the family or just head straight for the Wall."

"We'll see," she said, not promising anything. Tristan conceded the point—plans had to be flexible. Kation let him pull her to her feet and they quickly broke camp. "Although," she added as she easily hoisted herself into the saddle. "If I join your group it will really annoy Arthur."

He felt a great upwelling of appreciation for her efforts and determination. "Yes it will," he said, smiling as he mounted Tagiytei.

"Let's go," she said. "You'll have to hurry if you want to warn Arthur in time. I'll break camp and have a look at that river. Hey—" she said, breaking off to call Aritei back to her fist with a sharp whistle through her teeth. "I've got a great idea."

"Yeah?" Tristan asked, feeling that familiar dread rising in his heart and soul at the idea of Kation in possession of 'a great idea'. Previous 'great ideas' had led to the deaths of powerful people, entire buildings being burned down and trips north of the Wall.

"Once you've got Arthur on the road, come on ahead and we'll have a crack at those Saxons. You and me, together—we'll take out some sentries. Just for the fun of it."

Tristan didn't even have to think about it. There was less risk for them to do such a stupid and reckless thing—they could come back from the dead. And if those Saxons hung around, then they would give the bastards a very nasty shock. "Absolutely."

* * *

 **Reviews would be fabulous. So, so very wonderful.  
Cheers! ~L. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello everyone!**

 **I am now waiting for results on my Masters' degree. I also have to move out of my lovely, lovely flat. Believe me, this makes me very sad.**

 **But writing my OCs Kahedin and the Twins was a pleasure and a joy.**

 **Note : The Batavians are a Germanic cavalry unit, who were known to serve in the north of Britannia. But not during the 5th Century. I know, I know, bad historian. No biscuit for me.  
If you want further Batavian shenanigans, I suggest that you read the preceding fic ' _Tristan's Slave_ ', where they made their debut. **

**QUESTION TIME: Should I save Dagonet and Lancelot? Vote 'Yes' or 'No' as you please. **

**Warnings : Swearing, bit more violence. Threatening of Romans. Borderline sociopathic characters. Arthur-Seriously-WTF?. Even more Guinevere.  
**

 **Disclaimers : Only the OCs are mine. Sadly making no money out of this. **

* * *

KAHEDIN:

They had secured a good boat to take them across the sea to Gaul, and under budget too! Kahedin was very proud of that. Although he was feeling the strain of riding all the way back to the Wall with only the twins for company.

"… and they've probably drunk all the wine already," Cador said, the whine plain in his voice.

"And all the ale," Dinadan said.

"And the mead."

"And the cider."

That did it.

"Will you please shut up?!" he snapped.

The twins looked at him in astonishment.

"Hey, relax," Dinadan said, patting his arm. "You're so tense. Aren't you happy?"

Kahedin closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then made it twenty, when ten wasn't going to cut it. "We're a mile from the Fort and all you can think about is _the wine?"_

"Hey, at least we've avoided the after-party clean-up," Cador said. They crested the hill and saw the Fort below them. "Aha! At least the old place is still standing!"

Kahedin vaguely remembered a bet going round about the likelihood of Kation burning the whole place down. He had not joined in, but had privately considered the destruction would be contained to Arthur's dignity.

The Fort was quiet. Too quiet. There were no signs of an enormous party. Puzzled, they rode to their barracks. The stalls were all empty.

"What the hell is this?" Dinadan finally said as he dismounted and led his mare to her stall.

"Maybe they just went for a little group ride to clear their heads?" Cador said, but he sounded uncertain.

Kahedin felt worry start to gnaw at his gut. He wasn't going to panic just because the crew weren't where he had left them.

Then Mato appeared and seemed surprised to see them. "Oh! You're back!" he said, then winced.

"What is it? Where is everyone?" Kahedin said, striding over to him.

"Ah…" Mato winced again.

The fear was almost strangling Kahedin as he gripped Mato's shoulder and gave it a shake. "Mato," he said. "Tell me everything."

And so the awful tale came out. The final suicide mission north of the Wall, the most-likely-evil bishop, the Saxons, the Woads…

Kahedin's vision swam for a second. He turned to the twins, who looked just as appalled by what they were hearing. Why hadn't they been there? They needed to get their gear together and go after them!

"… And Kation left you a letter. It's in your room," Mato concluded. "I think you'd better read that before you do anything."

"Right," Kahedin said, and took off running for his room, with the twins on his heels.

He found the scroll on his pillow and unfurled it.

"Read it aloud," Cador said, sitting on Kahedin's bed.

Dinadan was pacing back and forth in front of the window, expression stormy.

Kahedin looked down at the neat Latin letters, cleared his throat and began:

 _Dear Kahedin, Cador and Dinadan,_

 _If you're reading this, it means that Mato, Amandus and Vanora have told you everything. We are still north of the Wall and possibly dead._

"If Arthur is leading the expedition, then it's a sure thing." Cador said gloomily.

"Tristan and Kitten thrive in the harshest conditions," Kahedin argued. "They'll take it as a personal affront if they lose anyone to Arthur's tactics."

 _Arthur could have been smart and got us a better deal, but he lost his temper and so we're leaving at dawn tomorrow. I've got a plan—several in fact—but Arthur is very good at trampling all over them. He did threaten the bishop, though, so that's something. He tried to stand up for us as best he could, in his own way, for all the good it did._

 _But trouble is still coming for you in the form of the Saxon army. We may be able to slow them down, but we can't stop thousands of them all alone. So be prepared, there's going to be a war. There's no way to escape it. The Saxons will reach the Wall. When they do, they will find the Roman Legion gone and only the villagers and our crew left._

 _I suggest you take the letter I have enclosed to Marcus Aquinus, commander of the Batavians in Eboracum._

"Oh no," Cador said. "No. Absolutely not. We're not having them back here."

Dinadan nodded vehemently. "We can't have some weak-wristed Germans riding to our rescue again. I won't survive it."

 _No, do not even think about disobeying this instruction. Your stupid pride is not worth it. Aquinas is a good man—okay, honourable fool, don't tell him I said that—and more importantly he owes me several massive favours, which I have described on the back of this letter. Cash these in and bring the Batavians back to the Fort to oversee the full-scale evacuation of the Fort. There is the very real possibility that they will also have to do battle with the Saxons if we did not manage to slow the enemy down sufficiently. If Aquinus still resists, mention the prestige attached to being the one to rescue Bishop Germanus from a Saxon army._

 _To this end, if you look in my filing system there's a battle plan I devised a while ago, when it looked like the Woads were going to launch a massive attack upon the Fort. It might be helpful if you and Aquinus decide to make a stupidly heroic last stand. Look on the bottom shelf behind the annual crop reports, the scroll and maps are tied together with green string._

 _If you decide evacuation will be better—and it really is the smarter option—then get our people out of there, or I will come back as a ghost and haunt you forever. Bedwyr and his family, Vanora and the children, Verica, Amandus and Mato, and their families. Then, go to Tristan's room and look in my trunk. There's a box with a horse carved into the lid. In it contains forged copies that I made of Bedwyr's release papers, with your names on the top. So whatever trick Germanus tries to play, be smart, pretend to agree and then get back to Sarmatia. Aquinas will help you. Do not get into a fight with him or the bishop._

 _Do not try to take revenge. Survival is more important._

 _Never ever, ever give up._

 _Live for all the lost ones, be happy and die of old age to spite our enemies._

 _Kation._

Dinadan gave a muted roar of rage and grief, raising his clenched fists to the sky. Cador was biting his knuckle and staring into space.

Kahedin's free hand ached. He looked at it in dull surprise. He had not even known that he was clenching it. Shaking blood back into his fingers, he looked at the letter to Aquinas, it was a formal message petitioning aid, but was laced through with oblique references to 'favours' and 'debts owed for services rendered'. Once again, he was impressed by the sheer effort Kation put into winning her battles. She had always been extremely goal-oriented, but she was also a vicious madwoman and innovative as hell.

"So!" Cador said, jumping to his feet. "Glad to know that our kitten does not suffer from a sense of sportsmanship. Are you going to ride to Eboracum, or shall I?"

Kahedin's brain was whirling. "Alright. One of you go and fetch the other papers Kation mentioned. We'll leave them here for safekeeping. Then both of you ride to Eboracum and charm Aquinas' toga off him. Convince him that this is his holy destiny or something like that. Channel Arthur's inspiring rhetoric and emotionally manipulate that man until he's the one dragging you back here."

Shrugging off their fatigue from their long journey, the twins dashed out of the room to get ready.

 _I would do anything for that woman,_ Kahedin thought, imagining his best friend sitting on the roof above their heads and grinning madly at the sight of them running around doing her bidding. _This is the least I can do in her memory. Then again, she might turn up tonight and ask us why we're all crying like babies._ He smiled and pushed his sadness aside.

There was work to be done.

* * *

TRISTAN:

Snow was starting to fall by the time Tristan was galloping down the road back to the villa. The weather was closing in, which was very bad. It would slow down the carriage.

And then he saw that the entire community was moving out.

Of course they were.

So much for Arthur's focus and determination. He didn't look at the gawping peasants or the very grumpy Romans. Tristan was so angry that he did not bother to wait for Arthur to ask for a report.

"They have flanked us to east," he said, wheeling Tagiytei around and pointing in the Saxons' general direction. Because Arthur had all the sense of direction of a stunned rabbit. "They're coming from the south trying to cut off our escape." He turned back to stare at Arthur, trying to impress the urgency of the news into his brain. "They'll be here before nightfall."

"How many?" Arthur asked.

"An entire army," Tristan promised. Kation always delivered solid (if extremely unpleasant) information.

"And the only way out is to the south," Arthur said, beginning to form some terrible vision of being trapped in his head.

Tristan shook his head. "East. There is a trail heading east." Simple, small words will get through to him. They _must_ get through to him. He felt a curl of hot, slithering desperation clutch at his heart and stomach. "Across the mountains. It means we'll have to cross behind Saxon lines, but that's the one we should take."

He licked his lips and waited for Arthur to say something useful like ' _Alright everybody, grab the family and run!'_ Nothing. Not even instructions to chivvy the masses. Tristan looked at the peasants, making Arthur look at them. Then he asked a serious question.

"Arthur." He was choosing his words with careful deliberation. "Who are these people?" The 'to you' was left unspoken. He wasn't Lancelot, he did not do the heart-to-heart conversations. He tried to infer that these unwashed offspring of toothless shepherds and their maggoty flocks had better have been part of the mission brief, but weren't mentioned because they were too embarrassing.

"They're coming with us," Arthur said, side-stepping the question.

Tristan allowed himself a tiny laugh, more like a sharp sigh. He shook his head slightly. Had Arthur heard a word he had said? He stared very seriously into his commander's eyes. "Then we'll never make it."

Arthur did not reply to that, but seemed to be digesting the words. The hope, the burning belief that it would all work out for the best—Lancelot was the one to rail and scream into the face of such mindless optimism. It was utterly futile. Tristan knew, with a brief moment of true insight, that they would die for Arthur to pull off what amounted to little more than a crusade to prove himself right. The realisation made him sick.

'Loyalty to his men', indeed! More like loyalty to himself.

Tristan looked to the east again, and heard the Saxon drums. They were heading this way; they were just the other side of the mountain. So close.

The sound made everyone stop what they were doing and stare at each other. Tristan didn't need to tell everyone for them to know what those drums meant.

Then a pair of Honorius' soldiers yelled at two men in brown sack-cloth to get back to work on bricking up that strange hut built into the side of the villa's wall. Something was off about that. Tristan's gut was telling him that no good could come of them going anywhere near it.

Disastrously, it caught Arthur's attention.

Once again, the Face of Moral Outrage drew the Sword of Justice and he dismounted from his horse and strode over.

Gawain, who had ridden over to Tristan for news of Kation, growled low in his throat and rolled his eyes heavenward. Close behind, Jols' eye started twitching.

Tristan watched, unmoving, unbelieving. Really? _Again?!_

They followed at a slow walk as Arthur told the advancing soldiers to move. He was even pointing his sword at them.

Bors, who had been skiving off in his Arthur-guarding duties, cantered over, sword drawn and raised. "Move!" he bellowed, echoing Arthur's order, as Galahad, Dagonet and Lancelot rode up to surround the soldiers, who seemed to realise that they were seriously outclassed. Lancelot's horse tried to bite one of them in the face.

"What is this?" Arthur said, turning to point the sword at the men doing the building. Tristan recognised them as priests.

"You cannot go in there," said the younger one. "No one goes in there. This place is forbidden."

Tristan noted that more soldiers who had hurried over to intervene had to be silently intercepted by the other knights.

As Arthur prodded the priests to one side at sword-point, Honorius noticed their activities and was rushing over to intervene. "What are you doing? Stop this!"

Bors wheeled around to block the advancing Roman, while Arthur moved closer, touching the freshly laid bricks.

"Arthur, we have no time!" Lancelot said.

"Did you _not hear_ the drums?" Galahad asked, sarcasm ringing through the question.

Arthur turned around to face them, but didn't respond to the question. "Dagonet," he said, jerking his head at the wall.

Never one for open mutiny or protest—although that would have been extremely helpful, right now!—the tall knight took this as his cue to dismount. He hefted his huge war axe and bore down on the wall with all the fire and determination of a god.

Lancelot glanced down the line of watching the other knights.

Gawain was starting to look curious.

Dagonet tore down the wall and then kicked at the wooden door. It did not open.

"Key!" Arthur demanded.

"It is locked—from the inside," one of the soldiers said.

Very strange.

Tristan's alarm bells were ringing furiously now.

Arthur nodded to Dagonet, who kicked the door down with a mighty roar.

Lancelot dismounted and drew one of his swords, preparing to follow Arthur and Dagonet inside.

" _We'll need some guides in Hell,_ " Gawain muttered to Tristan in Sarmatian. He dismounted and shoved the two priests into the chamber ahead of him. "Move!" he yelled in Latin, almost throwing them in.

Great. Now Tristan was committed because _not_ protecting his future brother-in-law was unthinkable. He urged Tagiytei forwards to stand in front of the entrance and finally drew his sword—a clear message to the soldiers that they would have to go through him and Galahad if they wanted to start anything.

He could distantly hear chanting coming up from what sounded like a cave beyond the chamber. There was some kind of underground structure.

As they waited, he thought of Kation following the Saxons. It did nothing for his calm. Nor did the flea-ridden peasants amassing to watch and wait for Arthur's return. At least they seemed to be ready to go. Tristan hoped so, or he would enact one of Kation's idle fantasies and apply a whip to the whole bloody lot of them, Roman commanders and lords included.

After what felt like a small eternity, Lancelot appeared in the doorway carrying Arthur's sword. He threw aside the torch, which hissed in the settling snow. The man looked like he really had seen Hell and that it had pissed him off. He had blood on his hands.

Aha. Very interesting.

"Water!" Arthur shouted, running out clutching a bundle of reeking rags to his chest. "Give me some water!" He roared, laying what turned out to be a girl on the ground.

Dagonet appeared carrying an emaciated, golden-haired boy, who squinted against the light.

Gawain brought up the rear, hurling two priests onto the ground and standing over them like an outraged lion. A knife was in his hand, and he looked ready to join Lancelot in a little recreational murder.

The Weasel Horton ran over, bearing water-skins from the packhorse. Lancelot stabbed Arthur's sword in the ground next to the girl's head, and walked back to his horse without another word. He looked torn between fury and… well, another kind of fury.

Arthur clumsily coaxed the girl to drink. Which she failed to do. Honorius' wife rushed out of the crowd to help, kneeling by the girl's head.

"His arm is broken," the Weasel said, staring at Dagonet's new charge. "And his family?"

Dagonet shook his head, stroking the boy's curls.

Great, another lost cause. Dagonet would probably try to adopt the child.

Tristan peered at the girl in Arthur's arms and saw what had got Lancelot in such a snit. There was blue paint on her legs.

This was the outside of enough.

"She's a Woad," he said and sheathed his sword—a clear sign that he was not going to help with this appalling situation anymore. If he hadn't been caught in the middle of it, he would have laughed until it hurt. And then kept laughing.

Bors, like Dagonet, was a soft hearted man and looked down at the girl in concern.

"I'm a Roman officer," Arthur said. "You're safe now. You're safe." Clearly he was on another campaign against Injustice. Not surprising, but truly infuriating. They really had no time to mess around saving unimportant people, _especially_ if they were Woads.

Personal grudges aside, Tristan really did not like the idea of one with such big eyes so close to Arthur. Particularly when the girl was fondling Arthur's breastplate and staring up at him with a kind of wonder on her face.

The echo of Kation's urgings to keep a close eye on their leader rang in his ears. No wonder Lancelot was looking so upset. And the snow began to fall in earnest, darkening the sky.

"Stop what you're doing!" Honorius bellowed, bearing down on them.

Arthur got to his feet, standing defensively over the Woad. "What is this madness?" he demanded.

"They are all pagans here!"

"So are we," Galahad said.

Honorius continued as if he hadn't heard Galahad, which was probably a good thing. "They have refused to do the task God has set for them! They must die! As an example!"

"You mean they refuse to be your serfs?!" Arthur bellowed.

"You are a Roman!" Honorius said in a tone shuddering with outrage. "You understand!"

Tristan wanted to say that there was actually an awful lot that Arthur most definitely did not understand.

Like Priorities.

And Urgency.

" _And_ you are a Christian!" Honorius continued, as if this would win him the argument.

Still Arthur said nothing, clearly as flabbergasted as everyone else by this fat little lunatic's reasoning.

"You!" Honorius shouted at his wife, who had been gently stroking the Woad's greasy hair. "You kept them alive!" And he hit her in the face.

It needed only that.

Arthur landed a solid punch on Honorius' jaw, sending the man to the ground. Then he picked up his sword and held it to Honorius' throat.

The soldiers rushed forward to help their lord, but Honorius seemed to realise that Arthur was debating whether to kill him or not, and told them to stop.

Tristan wished he would kill the little twerp so that they could just crack on.

"When we get to the Wall," Honorius said. "You will be punished for this heresy!"

Arthur gripped the front of Honorius' toga and lifted him closer to the sword's tip. "Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate!" he hissed.

There was a nasty pause, and then one of the priests broke the stalemate. "I was ready to die with them, yes, to lead them to their rightful place," he murmured. Arthur let go of the Roman lord and turned slowly to glare at the priest. "It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed," the madman continued dreamily. "Only then can their souls be saved."

"Then I shall grant His wish."

Tristan perked up. That sounded promisingly like a round of swift executions. Because in case everyone else had forgotten, the Saxon army had not magically disappeared just because Arthur kept on ignoring their presence.

"Wall them back up," he said to the villagers.

That did it. Tristan _could not_ stay silent any longer. "Arthur—!"

"I said wall them up!" Arthur bellowed.

Bors wheeled his horse around to start bullying the soldiers into compliance. Tristan decided he had to leave straight away or else strangle Arthur to death. And despite all their subsequent urgings, Arthur _insisted_ on wasting time overseeing the entombment of the mad priests and then evacuating every last cabbage and goat (rather than the single important boy) from the estate.

Then Aritei found him on the road, scaring the peasants and giving him a sense of evil satisfaction. The knights—minus Dagonet, who was insisting on being doctor to the Woad girl and the boy—had a whispered conference in Sarmatian and unanimously elected Lancelot to urge Arthur to ditch the peasants and the prisoners.

He returned with the bad news that Arthur was refusing to leave the peasants. Their commander had even had the audacity to tell Lancelot to calm down and save his anger for the Saxons who would now certainly catch up and kill them.

"When I asked him if this was Rome's quest, or his," Lancelot said, relaying the conversation to them in Sarmatian. "And he just looked at me. As if I was supposed to read it in his eyes, because it was that _obvious_!"

"But it _is_ that obvious," Gawain said. "This isn't about Rome, or some pope, this is about him proving the Roman lord wrong."

Galahad added. "It's about Arthur's self-righteousness."

Kation had been right.

Gawain and Galahad were right.

Tristan felt very (if silently) vindicated. It was _never_ simple when Arthur led them on a mission. He always insisted on stopping to talk to the locals and enact Justice and Freedom as he understood the concepts.

Worse still, they were witnessing the beginnings of Arthur's fascination with the Woad girl. Lancelot, not knowing how to compete with her fragile, gaunt beauty and pitiful stares, distanced himself from their commander, preferring to sulk elsewhere.

This did not assuage Tristan's never ending headache. Eventually, he, Gawain and Bors had to talk some sense into Lancelot.

"Remember what Kation said, _"_ Gawain said in a fierce undertone.

Lancelot flinched and glared at the leonine Aorsi. " _Y_ ou just had to mention the little devil, didn't you?"

"Get dangerous," Bors advised. "Scare her off."

Tristan frowned as he considered that. Was Lancelot dangerous? An excellent question. Only if you're female and blind drunk.

Or Arthur—sober or not.

That gave him the idea. "Flirt with her. Draw her eye away from her target." Lancelot usually hit on anything female that wasn't ancient or smart enough to run away.

Lancelot opened his mouth to argue, but Gawain and Bors realised that Tristan had a point. "No, he's right." Gawain said. "As much as I hate to admit it, he's bloody right."

"Don't get all noble and self-sacrificing about it," Bors said. "Yeah, Arthur saw her first, but she's hardly a suitable candidate for his girlfriend—she's a fucking Woad!"

"And when you're not flirting with her, stick close to Arthur and make him keep moving," Gawain added.

Tristan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and violently blew his nose.

"Looking a little peaky there, Tristan," Bors said.

"Unlike you pack of gossiping women," Tristan said thickly around the congestion and his aching throat. "I have been working the entire time."

"Riding on ahead!" Bors recited Arthur's catchphrase and laughed. "But seriously, man, you've got shadows under your eyes like bruises."

"Most likely," Tristan agreed. "I must have left my mirror back at the Fort."

"Hmm, yes," Gawain said, making a show of looking thoughtful. "Forgot my comb too."

"And Lancelot's forgotten his sense of humour!" Bors cackled.

Lancelot was forced to laugh with the rest of them. "Alright, alright," he said. "Fine. How's Plan B?" he said, cutting a look to Tristan. His easy smirk was back in place.

He was referring to Kation. Kation was always Plan B, since the knights were Arthur's Plan A, and things usually went wrong when the she wasn't consulted on military tactics. Tristan wondered if she deliberately sabotaged their efforts at independence.

She had not been consulted this time, Arthur had not spoken to her since the day they intervened at the bishop's ambush.

This did not bode well for whatever Kation was planning.

They plodded on through the falling snow. As the light began to fade, Arthur chose to pitch camp in a wood that ran adjacent to the road.

"Tristan—!" Arthur said, not even needing to complete the oft-repeated phrase.

He turned to Aritei. "You want to go out again?" he asked the bird, chucking her under the chin. "Yeah." He launched her into the air and then followed her at a steady trot. He knew that the hawk would find Kation, and then they could all go hunting together.

He found her three miles away, on the other side of the hill. She had lit a fire and was warming her hands in front of it. He leapt off Tagiytei and pulled her into his arms.

"Oh, my star, I'm not angry, not really," he said, reverting to his own Halani dialect.

She sighed and burrowed her face against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, _"_ she said in the same language, her voice muffled. "I have to keep these things from you in order to protect you. I know you can come back from death like me, but I'm terrified that one day that won't happen. You're not quite like me—you're still aging. While I still look twenty-two." She gave a huge gulp and shuddered. "I—I can't lose you. I _can't_."

Tristan, disconcerted, hugged her more tightly and put his lips to her hair. "Is this what you've been thinking of all afternoon?" he asked.

"The term of service should have been over a day ago," she said, looking up at him. "That god—" Tristan knew she meant the one who dragged her through worlds, regardless of how unwilling she was. The god he had made a deal with to stay with her for all time and through all the worlds. "He gave no details. Terms weren't stated, not really."

"Shh." Tristan sat down with her by the fire. She almost never had these moments, but when she did, they were usually about him or their friends or Vanora's children. The last time was when she had contracted a terrible fever and was panicking that she would die. It would mean she would have to leave the Fort, because revealing her secret would be worse. "What's this really about?" he asked.

That got her shaking all over again. There was something beneath all of this anxiety. Something worse.

"Why can't you lose me?" Not that he thought that was likely.

She buried her face in her hands like a frightened child. "I—I think…" she gulped noisily, as if swallowing back tears. "But—well, I keep thinking of what might still happen."

"Kat…" he said, coaxing her hands down, looking into her eyes. "What is it?" She was always so fearless, seeing her this terrified was unsettling.

She shook her head and buried her face against his neck. "Please… can you wait? I will tell you, I promise. I just… I can't think about it right now. There's still too much to do before this is over. And we have to get through this. All of us." She sniffed. "Even Arthur, damn him. Although I must say, fuck that guy, because I can't deal with his shit anymore."

"That's the spirit. Get angry." He gave her a squeeze. "Come on now, didn't you promise me some sport? I am so angry with Arthur right now that I need to kill something, even if it's just dinner."

That got her attention. "What is it?"

He related Arthur's insistence on escorting the entire community to the Wall, but refrained from mentioning the Woad. It wasn't his fault and he guessed that when Kation went into one of her cold, terrifying rages, it ought to be directed at the guilty parties.

"Good grief," Kation said softly. "Now I'm really angry too." She stood up abruptly. "You're absolutely right. Time to take a look at the Saxons—they've camped just the other side of that hill." She pointed to the west. "Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

They tied up the horses, selected their weapons and walked into the dark forest. Tristan mulled over her strange behaviour, but couldn't imagine what she had left to tell him. But she was right: personal had to wait. They crouched on the lee of the hill and stared down onto the road which the Saxons had camped upon.

"This is not the full force," Kation observed, they had pulled their scarves up over their lower faces, obscuring the fog of their breath. "This must be the group to capture Honorius and the family for ransom, while the main army heads for the Wall."

It made sense to Tristan. Even this relatively small group was more than enough to destroy the knights.

These grim musings were interrupted by Kation's next question: "So, the forward sentries, or the back?"

"If it's the forward, they'll take it to mean that we're trying to fend them off," Tristan mused. "If we take the back, then they'll feel like they're being hunted."

"Hmm," Kation tapped her fingers upon her knee. "Hunted…" By the starlight, Tristan could see her nod to herself. "The rear sentries, then as fast as we can back to your camp. I have a hunch that we are not alone."

Tristan realised what she meant and stiffened. "You're right. And they could have crossed the mountains without the use of the road."

"Yup."

They slithered down the steep hill, using the trees as hand-holds and being careful to make no sound. They were a perfect hunting team, and could take down both man and beast, on foot or horse. He saw the sentries—two of them, standing far enough away from the camp that they kept their night vision.

"Wait until the sentry change," Kation whispered. "Take four."

He liked that idea and leaned over to press a cloth-muffled kiss against the side of her head. "I'll be the lure, draw them into the trees," he said. "Then you come in behind and close the snare."

Kation nodded and held her position while Tristan moved silently between the trees, chose his spot and settled in to wait.

Eventually the replacements arrived, chafing their hands and talking in that harsh, lilting language to their comrades.

Tristan got up from his crouch, feeling his joints protest, having frozen in the cold. Then he readied his bow and walked noisily towards the road. That got their attention. All four men turned and asked each other 'what was that?', or words to that effect. Tristan turned and walked away from them, not trying to hide his presence. He paused for a moment, heard them following, and moved deeper into the trees.

Finding a dense patch of undergrowth, he stopped in the middle of it and turned around, waiting for the Saxons to find him. They arrived a moment later, making no attempt to be quiet. Tristan readied his bow and selected his target, the man in front. He drew, aimed and fired.

The arrow caught the man in the face and he dropped with little more than a liquid gurgle. Tristan dropped his bow and drew his sword, ready for the others to charge.

A slim shadow materialised behind the remaining three, reached up to grasp the last man's jaw, pulled it back and then her long knife flashed across his throat. Blood washed over the middle man, who yelled and spun around, only to have Kation shove the falling man at him.

Tristan ran forward and cut at the next Saxon in line. The man raised his own sword in defence and slashed at Tristan. He caught the blade and swung both swords away in an arc. Then he stepped in close, drawing a dagger from his belt and stabbed the man in the chest.

Only for the blade to be deflected by armour that lay beneath the furs.

"Hit the unprotected armpit!" Kat hissed. She was dancing around her soon-to-be-victim, delivering rapid and unpredictable blows. Her style was poised, lightning quick and impossible to hit.

If there was one fighting move that was Kat's signature, it was the dodge. She could evade blows like a fly in the air. It exhausted and infuriated her opponents (usually multiple) until she had learned their moves. Then, with the speed and agility of a cat, she would dart in and they would be dead.

Which is what she did right then. She caught the Saxon's arm, swung it up and around, flipping the man over her back. Then she twisted his arm over his back, preventing him from getting up.

Tristan, fully engaged with his own Saxon, stepped away, pulled back his arm and hurled his knife at the sentry. It hit him in the eye and he fell back whimpering in shock. Tristan stepped closer and sliced the man's throat open.

Kation's opponent was still alive, but she had pressed her foot against his face, muffling his screams. "Nice one," she said. "Could you take care of this one for me?"

Tristan obliged by cutting the man's throat. Then he turned back to fetch his bow from where he had dropped it, and stumbled over something heavy that was lying in the leaves.

"What the—?" he turned and knelt down, his hands closing on wood and metal. He lifted up the heavy contraption and peered at it.

"Oh, I think I know what that is," Kation said. "May I see?" she took it from him and ran her hands over it. "Yup, this is bad." She knelt by the body and found a quiver of very small arrows. "These are quarrels, or bolts. They're fired from this awful thing," she said, grabbing a handful of the quarrels and hefting the device onto her shoulder. "I'll show you back at camp."

Tristan carried her bow as well as his own on the return journey. In front of the fire, he could see the weapon more clearly.

Kation demonstrated winding back the bowstring and fitting a bolt in the slot. "The quarrel is released by pulling this trigger. Very nasty—lots of force and not a lot of muscle or skill required to work it. They're accurate, but not good for very long range. They also take time to load, which puts us archers at a slight advantage. However, they have one serious advantage."

She turned around, lifted the crossbow to her shoulder and fired it at a nearby tree. And rather than bouncing off or splintering apart like a normal arrow, the quarrel slammed into the wood with a dull 'thunk!'.

"These bolts will go through armour," she concluded, throwing down the crossbow and walking over to flick the bolt with a finger.

"I should have known," he said in a hollow voice. Kation smiled at him sunnily. He strapped the crossbow to his saddle and Kat kicked dirt over the fire. "Time to go to camp, I think," he said.

"Fast as possible," Kation agreed. She tightened Numa's girth and stuffed her things back into her saddlebags. Once in the saddle, she summoned Aritei to her wrist and then they both trotted swiftly through the trees and shadows.

* * *

 **Reviews would be fabulous.**

 **Cheers! ~L.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello everyone!**

 **And here's where I stray even further from the canon. Because thanks to a single voter (thank you** ** _Thecatwhogotthecanary_! You are awesome!)** **democracy is now in action!**

 **Warnings : Liberal sprinklings of swearing, minor violence. Threatening of Woads. Borderline sociopathic characters. Blackmail. A Big-Long-Overdue-Reveal! (Damn it, Gawain!)  
** **Further divergence from movie canon.**

 **Disclaimers : Only the OCs are mine. Sadly making no money out of this. **

* * *

GAWAIN: 

He was freezing, furious and fed up.

And he wanted his sister.

After what he had seen in that underground dungeon, he needed to hug someone and Kation was the only sensible option.

He was still waiting for Tristan's return when darkness had enveloped the camp and they were all huddled around a fire. Well, all of them except Dagonet, still caring for the boy Lucan, whose fever was still raging.

They had eaten their meagre rations in near-silence, each man absorbed in his own thoughts before Gawain went to the edge of camp to stand watch for Tristan. Wrapped in his long black cloak, he stood buff against the cold, watching his breath fogging in front of him. One mercy was that the earlier snow and rain had cleared the skies, so the full moon overhead gave Gawain just enough light to see the trail.

But left alone with his thoughts was not good. He had detected a change in Kation over the past few weeks. Although her usual appallingly violent ways had not abated, nor her bold no-nonsense attitude diminished, she had also been more thoughtful. Even, on occasion, taking herself off to sit in silence on the rooftops or in the lower pasture fields, surrounded by the horses. When pressed to confide in him—her own brother!—she had smiled a little sadly and thanked him for his concern, but said no more. It had been going on for _months_.

Then he heard the clop of two horses on the track. He moved to the middle of the road, waiting for them to approach, and was confused to see that it was just Tristan, and he was leading Kation's little mare.

"Where is she?" he demanded, striding forward. "Where is my sister?"

Tristan coughed painfully, his cold did not seem to appreciate all this galloping about without rest or sufficient warmth.

"Roaming about," Tristan said.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Gawain said crossly. "Much as this pains me to say it, I can't let you die. Neither of us can. She'd never forgive us." He took Numa's reins from Tristan's hand and led the ailing scout back to the Sarmatians' fireside.

Galahad and Bors looked after the horses while Gawain shoved Tristan down in front of the fire. A bowl of hot gruel was pushed into his chill hands, but Tristan resisted eating it.

"You've got to, lad," Bors said, giving Tristan's shoulder a shove. "Who else is going to go out and keep Kation from the fun of murdering every Saxon before we even have the chance to see the whites of their eyes?"

This idea would have filled Gawain with terrible dread if not for the fact that Tristan would never have allowed Kation the pleasure of such sport alone.

 _Once you realise how creepily alike they are, the relationship starts to make sense,_ Gawain thought miserably as he nibbled a biscuit.

"Move that sheer bulk away from the fire, Gawain."

Kation appeared from the shadows of the trees like a spectre, soundless across the snow. All the knights jumped and swore. She ought to have been frozen and tired and sore, but apparently her body hadn't received that message. Or she was hiding it very well.

"Gods, you do this for fun, don't you?" Lancelot exclaimed.

Kation ignored this complaint and stared at them all for a long, unsettling moment. "There's a Woad in the wagon," she informed them without any sign of surprise or distress at the news. She sat down beside Tristan and stole a slice of cured meat from him in exchange for a kiss in greeting.

Gawain choked on a biscuit in his outrage, and while Galahad pounded him on the back helpfully, Lancelot groaned. "Not now, kitten," he pleaded.

Kation raised an eyebrow at them all as Tristan kept his head down, smirking at his gruel.

"Is _anyone_ going to _explain_ the _Woad_?" Kation said, still not sounding very upset about it. But that was the deception. She was howling mad. Furious that they had let her down when she had been away doing important work. That they had failed so spectacularly only enhanced her rage.

Lancelot described the dungeon beneath Honorius' villa, and Kation listened in ominous silence. Her eyes were colder than the snow-covered night around them. A very bad sign.

"Do you _realise_ what you have done?" Kation growled at Lancelot. "You were supposed to watch him with the same obsessive intensity Gawain has when he's spots me trying to sneak off with Tristan."

Gawain thought this was unfair, but before he could protest, Kation shook her head—clearly she was not interested in their excuses. Her long dagger was holstered between her shoulder blades, Gawain could see it peeping up from the collar of her cloak. He was half afraid she'd draw it and attack them.

No one spoke. Her anger was justified.

After a long moment, Tristan—in a voice hoarse from sickness and fatigue—explained how they had tried to convince Arthur against his plans. Kation listened in seething silence before covering her eyes with a thin hand. "Maybe it's not too late to run," she murmured to herself.

"Run?" Bors repeated. "Where? We're caught between the Woads and the bloody Saxons!"

Kation shot him an irritated look. "If I were talking of desertion—which I'm not—then it would be the easiest thing in the world. I was, in fact, referring to going back to shadowing the Saxons."

"Speaking of which," Gawain said, gratefully picking up this new topic of conversation offered. "Have you had a good hunt, you imp?" he asked.

"The best," Kation replied, grinning unpleasantly. "You know, I think those Woads are not a very bitey sort of enemy. Kind of insecure. When compared to the Saxons, anyway, who have way better weapons and even invest in armour. They're worth killing. The Woads have bushcraft and paint—hardly terrifying for professionals."

She got up and pointed at the back of Tristan's head. "See that he sleeps. I'll patrol the camp and take another look at Arthur's new _pet._ " She spat the last word, and her eyes flashed. "Gods know, now that I'm here, I might as well be useful!"

And with one last lacerating glare at them all, she turned away into the night.

After a few long moments, Lancelot got up and announced that he'd take the watch near Honorius's tent. Galahad offered to help Bors' efforts to make Tristan rest. And Gawain, still feeling that he stood a chance of getting that hug, got up to follow Kation.

* * *

I had ridden down the track after Tristan, thanking all the gods I could remember that we were going back to something simple. Fighting was never hard. The mission never as daunting as matters of the heart.

I don't know what had possessed me to reveal I had another confession to make. Fortunately, Tristan had excellent prioritising skills, and could see that we were neck-deep in a crisis.

Little did I realise how severe the crisis was until we arrived in Arthur's Snail-Pace Circus of Utter Ineptitude. I was disgusted by the sight of so many flea-bitten human sheep.

And now…

My seething anger was cut short when I heard the soft crunch of boots behind me. I half turned and saw Gawain bearing down on me.

I wasn't sure why he hadn't just tackled me to the ground already, as he was wont to do when he felt like lecturing me about something. I pre-empted this ambition of his by spreading my own arms in welcome. Seconds later I was enveloped in a mighty hug that squeezed the breath from my lungs.

"Rough time of it?" I asked him in Sarmatian.

"You've no idea," he breathed against my hair. "The things in that dungeon—the _smell—_ oh gods—" he broke off and swallowed convulsively.

I tightened my grip around his waist and nodded. I couldn't fault them for saving the Woad and the boy, but the waste of precious time was inexcusable. I let Gawain hug it out of his system and by the time he was done, I had a damp patch in my hair that I hoped did not include snot. One plus was that I had warmed up considerably under Gawain's cloak.

I smiled up at him and went up on tip-toe to press a kiss to his beardy cheek. "It'll be alright. You'll see."

What I didn't say was that this was going to be an operation executed in the finest traditions of our crew. In other words, by the seat of Arthur's knickers, held together with gritted teeth, sharpened steel and a total sense of humour failure.

"What do you think of our baggage train?" Gawain asked, turning me in the circle of his arms so that we could survey the squishy Saxon buffet together.

"Gods, what a view," I breathed, my tone one of mingled wonderment and disgust. "This must be what happens if humans are allowed to have intimate relations with their livestock."

It got a laugh from my brother, but really, it was worse than I imagined.

"What's worrying you?" Gawain asked me, his voice breaking in on my dark thoughts. "Something's wrong."

Was I losing my touch? How had he noticed? I tried to deflect. "Apart from our current situation? Why, nothing at all! I was only wondering if I had neglected to do my laundry before setting off to die north of the fucking Wall."

I almost _heard_ the sarcasm ping off Gawain's stubbornness. His arms tightened about me. "That's not what I meant," he said, his voice softening. "If it's something Tristan's done—"

I shook my head. "No, he hasn't done anything. It's… well, it's definitely not an immediate problem, I promise. It can wait till we're back at the Fort."

"Assuming we survive to see that accursed place again," Gawain said.

"Yeah." I couldn't argue with that. I shook myself and stepped free of Gawain's arms. "Now, can you please go and make sure Tristan sleeps? I'll join you both in a little while."

"I'll sit on him if I have to," Gawain promised, and we went our separate ways.

I walked—oh alright, _skulked_ —around the camp to get a feel for just how useless these peasants were. The 'creeping-through-the-shadows stroll' was going well. I deduced that Honorius had megalomaniacal tendencies towards… well, _everyone_. The Cult of Arthur had spread north of the Wall and the peasants were overjoyed to be under his benevolent 'protection'.

And then there was the Pet. If the Woad had a name, I had clearly missed it. By the time I tracked her down, she had finished having a long overdue bath in one of the wagons, and was pulling on one of the Roman lady's spare dresses. Suspicious to the nth degree, I followed her through the camp and was surprised to learn that for a Woad, she had questionably little situational awareness. Usually I had to be extra-stealthy to sneak up on the feral smurfs.

 _Unless…_ I paused and let my hand stray to my throwing knives. Unless she already knew I was following her.

In this lifestyle there's no such thing as paranoia, only excessive preparation.

Even stranger, she hadn't picked up those skirts and made a break for freedom. Usually they would have already been running for the hills, but this one sashayed about like she belonged amongst the knights. And the way she moved can only really be described as a 'sashay'. She was a wannabe specimen of Sex On The Hoof. She would lure you in with those big dark eyes and the 'oh-please-save-poor-little-torture-victim-me!' routine, then brainwash you with her own nefarious agenda.

And now she was exchanging banter of an intellectually feeble and morally self-righteous nature with Lancelot. I felt my lips draw back from my teeth in disgust and knew that it was only the Pet's aforementioned eyes that had Lancelot even sparing the creature more than a polite nod. Even _he_ had some standards. He even had the balls to inform her that he would have left her and the boy to die, and I honestly can't say I disagreed with the idea.

Maybe she hadn't realised that men are not necessary to a woman's life and fulfilment. They're a luxury item. I, for example, was overly abundant in luxury, but completely bankrupt on the essentials. It was like having mansions full of cake and cocaine, but not a single vegetable in sight.

Her presence was having a deleterious effect upon my boys' morale and an as yet uncalculated influence upon Arthur.

And we also had the seething discontent of Honorius to be wary of. He was definitely the kind of coward to try something. I only hoped he waited until he could bitch at Bishop Germanus and we could happily throw Arthur to the Roman wolves without a shred of remorse. (So long as we could suppress Lancelot's infatuation, or tie him up and bundle him into a sack until the deed was done.)

I was about to head back to Tristan, when I heard the Pet slither away from Lancelot, towards the treeline. Somehow the Second In Command had managed to drive her away. Impressive. And good riddance!

Then I heard the chink of armour and saw an all-too-familiar red cloak.

Of course.

Arthur.

…

Wait.

…

What the fuckity fuck?!

Mere minutes after their previous dressing down, _Arthur_ was roaming about unsupervised! _Again!_ I sincerely hoped that the boys would have an absolutely mind-blowing, legitimate and very believable story to tell me the moment I caught sight of their sorry figures.

Words would be had. Words they would not enjoy.

But for now, I had to fetch reinforcements.

I was certain the Woads wouldn't bother to attack a bunch of half-starved peasants. But if a pretty face could lure just one Sadly Crucial Military Commander away to a secluded spot where he could be quietly murdered—

I ran all the way back to the Sarmatian pickets and skidded to a halt above Galahad and kicked him hard on the leg. He woke with a jerk and an oath, as did Gawain, who had been sleeping back-to-back against Tristan. My beloved groaned and rolled over to blink at me sleepily. I crouched over him and brushed his hair off his forehead. Still not feverish, thank goodness.

"Where's Bors?" I hissed.

"Helping Dagonet with the boy," Galahad mumbled around a yawn.

"Typical," I said. "Now don't start to talk or think, just move and follow me, or we're all done for," I whispered to all of them. They all immediately threw off their cloaks and snatched up their weapons. I wriggled free of my own cloak and led them back into the trees. Tristan was the slowest to wake, but once on his feet, he was as ready as the rest of us.

"Okay. Creep. Stealth. Lowest profile," I whispered, dragging them through the darkness after Arthur.

"What's up?" Gawain whispered in my ear.

"Arthur is taking a moonlit stroll without a chaperone," I hissed back. "I am _so_ disappointed in you all."

Searching for a lost idiot in a part of the island I did not know. Did I have time for this? No.

We crept silently through the undergrowth, ears on the prick for the sound of the Woads who were doubtlessly infesting the entire ridge.

If you've been hunted once, you never forget the feeling. If you've been hunted twice, then your nerves and senses realign to a more acute framework. By the third time, you've become the hunter yourself.

I have never been so blatantly insulted, provoked and amazed by the sheer stupidity that we were forced to witness in catching the Woads trying to hunt us that night.

Even Galahad noticed them.

We had to waste a bit of time doubling back, which was a total bore. But then, I bet you haven't tried hunting through the Scottish Highlands after guerrilla rebels covered in blue paint. Sounds simple? Well, I've got news for you all, the blue of woad dye actually renders forms _two-dimensional in low light_ , making it _CAMOUFLAGE. _

Not so fucking 'simple'.

We had to wait until they were almost stepping on our toes before striking.

I dropped out of the tree I had climbed and bore my target to the ground. I knocked him out with a swift blow to the back of the head with the pommel of my knife. Then I had enough time to pause, take a quick moment to evaluate the situation and push my hair out of my face before dodging the next onrushing Woad, then tripping him with a kick to the back of his knee and a shove to his shoulder. I stomped on his head, and he stopped trying to get up.

The other knights had already subdued their own targets, knocking them all out and tying them to trees with their own belts. It was a satisfying sight. We also gagged them.

"Think they'll enjoy admitting to this?" Galahad whispered breathlessly. His grin was like a crescent moon. It was nice to see the lad looking more cheerful.

I returned the smile. "Come on, we can't leave Arthur to die at the hands of their comrades. It would be too lame."

We caught up with them, and just in time to see Arthur startle theatrically as Merlin stepped out from a thicket.

We all froze and waited. I cursed myself for not remembering to grab my bow.

But at least Captain Morality had drawn his sword.

"He won't hurt you," the Pet said.

'He won't hurt you,' I mouthed, narrowing my eyes and shaking my head. What other stupid pronouncements were in store for us?

"That fucking bitch planned this! It's a trap!" Galahad whispered, so quietly that we barely heard it over the breeze rustling through the trees.

Thank you, Private Obvious.

Gawain, who was closest to Galahad, pushed the youngster's head down.

No, Merlin would only have to lift a fucking finger and doubtless the Woad archers surrounding this little clearing would gladly render Arthur into a half-Roman, but fully-loaded pincushion.

I was almost tempted to let it happen.

But for the moment, at least, the Woad leader did seem interested in just talking. Although where he had picked up Latin was anyone's fucking guess. I tapped Tristan and when he turned to look at me, I leaned in very close to whisper into his ear: "Let's circle round and remind the Woad audience that it's past their bedtime."

He nodded slightly and passed the message onto Gawain, who conveyed it to Galahad. Then we moved like living shadows through the night, being forced to listen to the heated conversation between Arthur and Merlin. Some touchy-feely nonsense about his mother, father and ethnicity. I realised what was going on. Merlin was trying to convince Arthur to protect the Woads from the Saxons.

I had to admire his gall, if nothing else.

And of course, Arthur could be relied upon for explosive mishandling of a singular opportunity. There was also some emotional shouting.

We found Merlin's entourage behind a thicket. None of them looked happy, but at least none of them had bows. Time to do a little negotiating of my own.

There were five in all, and they looked really displeased when we coalesced out of the darkness before them. They all leapt to their feet, their hands going immediately to their weapons. We all put our empty hands up.

"What the—?!"

I shushed them.

"What do you want, devil?" one of them asked me.

Well, didn't I have all the nicest nicknames?

I rolled my eyes and put my hands down. "Good evening to you, too," I replied in their own language. No mangled Latin, please.

"Why are you here?" one of them hissed. He was a big lad, with very red hair and a spear in one hand.

"Do you really think Arthur would be so foolhardy as to walk off without back-up? Get real."

They realised I was mocking them and glared even more ferociously. "We are not here to attack you," a blond man said.

"No? Then why are you tracking us?"" Tristan said, joining the fray. He also spoke the Woad's language. Unfortunately, Gawain and Galahad only knew enough to curse and scream insults, so I had to pray that they kept quiet.

The warriors did not immediately answer and I started to suspect that these were not the ones paid to think.

I made a great show of realising what was up. "Oh, I see! You're here to manipulate Arthur into protecting you too. From the nasty Saxons."

Tristan huffed a laugh and quietly translated for Gawain and Galahad, who both grinned unpleasantly.

The Woads looked even angrier.

Why were we provoking these men? We shouldn't create more problems for ourselves.

Oh, right. They were morons who would never learn. They deserved all the punishment doe to the terminally stupid.

"Do not underestimate us, you disgusting barbarian," another one snarled at me. He had dark hair and an axe.

"We have been fighting you for fifteen years," Tristan said. "We have _never_ underestimated you."

"You are, however, disorganised and fragmented by inter-tribal tensions. This makes you far less threatening to a professional force like the Sarmatian heavy cavalry," I added, waving grandly to encompass all three knights present. "Sadly our leaders—incurably optimistic, idealistic morons that they are—have declared a truce, so that we may fight a common enemy. Personally, I'd leave this island in a heartbeat and wish you all the luck you'll certainly need. But Arthur has this strange madness that drives him to save _everyone._ That may even include your sorry lot. So, doubtless, he'll ask us to stay and help—fluttering his eyelashes like some cheap slut."

The Woads laughed, in spite of their misgivings and obvious hatred of us.

"So," said the blond. "We are to be allies? You will not attack us?"

"Not unless you attack us first," I said, lying through my teeth. We were so unbelievably outnumbered that we couldn't afford to be noble about this. But if I could negotiate for a temporary ceasefire it would buy us a little time.

The Woads nodded, apparently satisfied by this pronouncement. It was, after all, a relatively simple thing. We didn't have to like each other, we just had to resist killing each other.

Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote that " _whoever lives for the sake of combating an enemy has an interest in the enemy's staying alive."_ Words to live by. They were a cornerstone of my philosophy and meant I didn't play fair or nurture any particular hatred. It wasn't personal, it was just good business to kill them straight away.

But in this instance, it was even better business to get these dispossessed fanatics to work for me.

We waited in silence, watching each other closely as the 'official negotiations' were wound up.

"Best run along," the red-headed warrior said to us. "At the heels of your master."

I grinned and shook my head. "There's just one last matter to discuss." I turned the mad rictus onto Merlin, who had just deigned to join us.

The knights tensed, ready to spring, but I held them back with a sharp " _Wait!_ " in Sarmatian.

Merlin is not insignificant, or someone to be laughed at. Yet it was still a monumental struggle to keep a straight face when the man looked like a marsh-grown shaman who ought to have a bone through his nose to complete his 'knit some organic yoghurt and drink your own urine' vibe.

All I could think was: _I'm close enough to kill you._ It would be the perfect time to kill him and end at least half my problems. In fact, if it had been up to me (and it never, ever really is) I would have finished all those losers off in an instant.

But since they wouldn't go away, I might as well make them useful.

Now, Merlin had displayed certain measures of cunning, but right now I needed to know if he was truly a profound thinker.

He eyed me with open disapproval.

I decided to hurry things along—there were still a few hours of sleep waiting for me back at camp if I played my cards right.

"You need a master of war, someone who is not involved in your unstable inter-tribal politics. Who would command you all and grant you asylum south of the Wall. That's why you haven't killed us this time," I said, getting straight down to business.

If Merlin's glare had been a physical thing, I would have died instantly.

Fortunately for me, it wasn't. "It's a risky means to an end," I went on. "We could just close the Wall's gates, abandon the Fort and head for the southern cities. And we have every reason to. You may have spared the knights their lives, but you have done nothing to aid us."

The knights at my back were used to me cutting deals and blackmailing people, so they remained silent and looked menacing for me.

Merlin looked annoyed. "What are you saying?"

"It's time for a little reciprocity," I said.

"We have gold—" one of the warriors said, but he was hastily silenced by his colleagues.

"No, not gold," I said. "Archers. Forty of them. To be the caravan's rear-guard at dawn."

I heard Tristan's congested inhalation of surprise, but fortunately he did not say anything.

Merlin huffed through his mossy beard (seriously, I was sure that plant-life was flourishing in there), incredulous. "You are out of your mind."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh? And weren't you going to send troops to the Wall anyway? Wasn't that what your little discussion with Artorius Castus was all about?"

Merlin was cross and tried to stall for time. "Now see here—"

"No, you see here. We need archers to guard the caravan. This is not a favour; this is a business deal. Because if you don't help us with this very simple demonstration of good faith, then we probably won't make it to the Wall. But before we die, I will be sure to tell Arthur that you were a traitor who had been hedging his bets the whole time."

Merlin looked like he'd bitten into a lemon, the fury smouldering in his eyes. He really hated me, because I was telling the truth. There was a long, silent moment.

"Could someone please knife him so we can get it over with and go to bed?" Galahad asked in Sarmatian. I had to suppress me smile.

Finally, Merlin growled and spat at my feet. Yuck. " _Twenty_ archers," he said, stabbing a stained fingernail at me.

"Forty," I repeated. "Or else I'll just kill you here and now."

"You would die with me," Merlin said with what he probably thought was a nasty laugh.

I shrugged and let a very nasty smile blossom on my mouth. "You really think that your weapons or warriors frighten me?"

Merlin shifted, and for a second there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. As if he believed the superstitious whispers about me being an evil spirit clad in human flesh.

"Thirty," he said after a very long moment. "And you will command them, since you have a habit of keeping your men alive."

"Thank you," I said, inclining my head. And I meant it. I could have been lethal with twenty archers, but haggling for a better deal was almost par for the course with these cretins. And I wasn't going to waste potential resources.

"Don't thank me, you repulsive catamite." Merlin snarled, already turning away. "As soon as the Saxon is gone, you're next."

I smiled. "Of course." (Whatever.)

Then another thought struck me. "Oh, one last thing."

" _What?"_ Merlin sounded really angry now as he glared at me over his shoulder.

"What about Arthur's pity case? One of yours. She's done her job, so she can return to the fold."

Merlin smirked mirthlessly. "Guinevere stays."

 _Must_ she?

The red-headed warrior grinned at me, wholly unsympathetic. "It's only the beginning."

And didn't that just sound far too ominous?

"And you want our cooperation," I said. "I'm inclined to insist upon forty archers."

" _Thirty_ , you disgusting little pervert," Merlin said, already walking away.

So much for the enlightened times. I turned an exasperated look on Tristan, who grinned and shrugged.

"Time we left," I said.

"Not fast enough!" Galahad agreed.

So we trooped back to camp, past our previous victims, whom we set free after taking all their weapons off them and hurling them into the bushes. That was satisfying.

By the time we got back to the camp, Bors had returned to the fire and stirred it up again. He had even managed to steal a pot off the wagon and melt some snow into hot water. We took turns to pass round a wooden cup and it was heaven.

"Well, things might be slightly less awful now." I said. Because we were all far too old and experienced to believe such lies as _'It will be alright'_.

"So, what did you talk to Merlin about?" Gawain asked me.

"In my role as Head of Profitable Arrangements," I said. "I have managed to rectify the lack of a rear-guard by securing thirty archers from Merlin. He wasn't happy, but after a little conversation, he agreed to it. I am to command them. And then the whole Woad army will be waiting at the Fort to fight with us. A rather unfunny but helpful turn of events, I think you'll agree."

There was a silence. A pause… and then… wait for it…

Gawain surged upright, huffing and bellowing curses. He really does the Aorsi proud. He leapt across the space, wrenched me up onto my tip-toes and shook me hard by the upper arms.

"I preferred you when you were a nice, quiet, sweet little girl!" He declared in a wounded voice.

"When was I _ever_ one of those?!" I demanded, gripping his wrists as he almost lifted me off my feet.

Then I realised that we had an audience. Well, that was one cat out of the bag. At least we had been having this conversation in Sarmatian rather than Latin. That would have been disastrous.

Even Gawain seemed to realise how far he had gone over the line. He let me go and stepped back. Out of reach.

The others were all looking at me like I had started raving in tongues. I realised I had used my own voice, my real voice, not the attempt at the lower, gruffer tones of a young man that I was so used to.

Oh well, too late to turn back now.

"What?!" Galahad shrieked.

"I knew it!" Bors yelled. "Tristan! You—you—bastard!"

I was pretty sure he meant it in the pejorative, not the descriptive.

Tristan shrugged. "It was my idea—for her protection." He smiled up at me. "Sorry, gorgeous."

I shrugged and watched the unfolding scene with interest.

"All this time!" Galahad said, his own voice rising in pitch and tone. "How?!"

"Vanora helped keep the secret," I said.

Bors looked ready to explode. " _Van_ knew?!"

I pointed at my leonine brother. "That was Gawain's idea."

"And how long have _you_ known, my buck?" Bors demanded, rounding on Gawain.

Gawain puffed up, his shoulders squaring. "Since almost the day we met her. And after a year, we got Bedwyr to blood-oath her into my family. She's been my sister for nearly ten years and I will not tolerate any insults against her."

 _"Sister?!"_ Galahad and Bors yelled together.

Alright, that did it.

"Enough!" I snapped, wading into the fray. Another raised voice was not the answer, so I kept my volume low. Still, they all shut up. "Gawain can answer your questions later. This is not what is important, so everyone calm down right now." There, that was revenge enough. I sat next to Tristan and let him wrap an arm around me. The other knights, still seething with conjecture and questions—which I did not have the patience to tackle—sat down too.

Grumbling at my treachery, my brother sat down on my other side and I was rather grateful for the protection.

"Well, all right, but don't think this is over!" Bors said. "And really—an army? We've had an army fitted out for this campaign we _didn't_ sign up for? An army of _Woads?!_ "

I nodded. "It's bitterly ironic, I agree. But I took care of our human resources problem. You should all be on your knees thanking me."

Because so far there had been unacceptable, substandard work from Arthur. Our efforts only served to highlight his deficiencies, not that anyone was around to notice.

"You should have just killed Merlin!" Bors snarled.

"Believe me," I said. "While I am professionally obliged to kill him on sight, I much preferred to have a chat with him. And he is very easy to persuade."

Tristan made a wet choking sound—his cold was loosening its hold, but that only meant more goo before he was free—and buried his face in my neck, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. He had understood my conversation with Merlin, and thought it amusing that I had once again sought to manipulate those fools around me who didn't know it was better for them to flee.

I patted his knee, but otherwise ignored him.

"One more thing before I get some sleep. Merlin's refused to take back the Pet Woad."

The result is inevitable.

Grumbling and whinging.

First, we all agreed that 'the Pet' was a far better label for her.

"I reckon Arthur fancies her," Bors said.

"She is probably planning to eat him alive," Galahad added, full of gloom.

"If Lancelot didn't kill her first," Gawain joked. "He's not the sharing type."

I had been brooding over why the Pet should remain with us, and could find only one satisfactory explanation. "She'll seduce Arthur," I said.

"Don't underestimate him." Bors said loyally.

I sighed. "Don't underestimate _her_." Oh, and Arthur's hopeless. _Let us not forget that._

Galahad looked like he was having a very hard time adjusting to the idea that I was not a perverse boy-toy who had tormented him with my presence for the past ten years. He looked like he wanted brain bleach. He looked in need of a hug.

And he'd probably have a nervous breakdown if I tried to give him one.

I sighed. "Well, us scouts are going to get some sleep. Night-night," I said and then leaned over and kissed Gawain on the cheek before dragging Tristan to his feet and pulling him over to the ground sheet he had been using by the fire. Wrapped in our cloaks and with half our collective weapons removed, we snuggled down together.

On the other side of the fire, we could hear further outraged demands upon Gawain for explanations. I was lying on my back, listening to Tristan's stertorous breaths in my ear and trying not to chuckle as Gawain's temper frayed under the merciless interrogation.

Most of my anger and frustration had been redirected into more productive avenues. Like securing the Woad archers and taking revenge upon Gawain for his act of unforgiveable stupidity by throwing him to the wolves. And, never forget that I'm a complete and utter bitch.

"He deserves this," I whispered to Tristan.

He huffed a laugh, choked on it, and had to turn away to cough.

"No more heroic measures tonight!" I said as he attempted to hack up one of his compromised lungs. "We won't survive it."

Finally composed, Tristan rolled back to face me with a groan. "I cannot wait to be rid of this evil disease." He sniffled and wiped his streaming eyes with a clean handkerchief. (I had him packed to the gunnels with the things, even he couldn't deliberately lose that many on a campaign.) "Maybe then you'll kiss me again." He smirked at me in a rakish manner, but the effect was spoiled by his red-tipped nose and the bleary cast to his eyes.

I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow. "There. Now go to sleep."

He rolled his eyes and muttered something about a teasing minx (I have no idea who that could possibly be) then we snuggled into our cloaks and blankets and let sleep overcome us.

* * *

 **Reviews would be fabulous.**

 **Cheers! ~L.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello everyone!**

 **So sorry for the long delay. University is finally over, moved house, battled through Christmas (except for the carcass of the biggest turkey I have ever seen).**

 **I am so ready for 2016 to crawl into the fiery Pit from whence it came. This chapter is dedicated to all my fellow sufferers and misanthropes who are completely fed up.**

 **Warnings : Some violence. Swearing. ****Further divergence from movie canon. Further devious and underhanded tactics.**

 **Disclaimers : Only the OCs and auxiliaries are mine. **

* * *

At some point during the night, Gawain managed to explain my existence to Galahad and Bors' temporary satisfaction.

Then they all joined us.

No bloody privacy!

They are also the most outrageous blanket thieves in their sleep.

I awoke an hour before dawn, tightly sandwiched between Galahad's back and Tristan's front. Gawain was using Tristan's hip as a pillow, his long hair spilling about him like a tawny curtain. Somewhere out of sight, Bors was snoring like a volcano on the brink of eruption.

Tristan cuddles like an anaconda in his sleep, so I had to fight to sit up in the snoring puppy pile. Then I had to rouse Tristan using rather forceful (' _slap!'_ ) tactics.

"Muh?"

Not his most articulate moment.

I tugged one of his braids.

"Come on—time to ride in after a hard night's scouting to chivvy Arthur into a panicked stampede."

While Tristan extricated himself from Gawain's powerful embrace (no comment), I scrubbed some fresh snow over my face, brushed my teeth and nibbled on some bucellatum. This is a kind of hard tack that you could use as cobblestones or sling bullets if suitable rocks ever became scarce. These salty concrete carb-bombs broke teeth, but were certainly filling.

I usually crumbled mine into hot liquid to make a kind of paste that was unappealing but safer to eat.

I helped Tristan get Tagiytei ready and he set off to circle back into camp. It was a simple deception to make Arthur think that his scout had spent all night charging about on a solo scouting mission, when he had been far more sensible and caught a few hours' sleep, safe and snug. After all, it wasn't as if Arthur had specified that Tristan _must_ stay out all night, freezing his buns off in pursuit of Saxons—whose location and intent were known to even the meanest intelligence! Therefore, this observation must exclude Arthur. Again.

With breakfast out of the way, I set about packing my meagre things and putting all my weapons back on. As I worked, the other knights began to wake up, groaning, stretching and cursing the cold and damp.

Gawain struggled to his feet and when he caught sight of me, he approached warily.

"I'm sorry for outing you," he said quietly.

I peered past his shoulder and saw that Bors and Galahad were casting me unsubtle glances as they got their stuff together.

"You know," I said, loud enough for them to hear me too. And in my normal, woman's voice. "One of my great goals in life was _not_ to be discovered as a woman _precisely_ because it would make things weird and awkward."

"It's not—" Gawain tried to protest, but I cut him off.

"It's _already_ like that!" I exclaimed and leaned around him to raise my eyebrows expectantly at Bors, who had given up on subtlety altogether and was staring at me. "What do you want? It's far too fucking cold to strip off. And if you _ever_ attempt to cop a feel, I will cut your arms off at the shoulder and beat you to death with them. So this means I'm just going to have to ask the following: in light of this new information, do the last ten years now mean nothing?"

"This certainly puts a new spin on them," Bors said, and then grinned. "Damn, you must have had some real fun over the years making this one squirm," he added, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Galahad.

The younger man whipped round, looking ready to scream something like ' _Shut up!'_ in shrill accents, but I beat him to it.

"Oh no, Galahad is a precious child who must be protected from all you idiots. Besides, he's way too easy to provoke. I haven't properly teased you in years, have I?" I added, looking at my young friend for confirmation.

Galahad thought about it and then shook his head, a reluctant smile winning out on his face.

"No," I continued conversationally, as I squatted down next to the fire and revived it with my flints and a handful of tinder. "Lancelot and Arthur are far more satisfying sport."

Bors' laugh roared through the still winter air.

We sat down to some more hot water and the men did battle with their bucellatum, agreeing that making a porridge was safer for everyone than possible dental ruin.

We were all sitting in a huddle and conversation was flowing rather easily when I heard the faintest jangle of chainmail. I turned my head to look at Gawain and saw six of Honorius' soldiers ambling over to us out of the corner of my eye.

I couldn't stop my eyebrow twitching up. Now I don't want to sound boastful, but the first instinct that came to me at that moment had been so finely honed over the years that you could sharpen knives on it. And that instinct was to kill.

Thus it required even mightier self-control to freeze and do nothing.

"Ah! There they are!" one of them said. "The famous _Sarmatian knights._ " The last words sounded like he was describing mouldy bread.

My boys had jumped to their feet and I reluctantly followed suit. I had a really awful feeling about this.

"Right," Bors said, baring his teeth like an anticipatory attack dog. "What do you want?"

"How dare you speak to us in such a manner!" The first man exclaimed. I noticed his nose had been broken sometime in the past and had not been reset properly. "We're soldiers of Rome! You are nothing but indentured mercenaries."

"Oh?" Galahad said, and I heard trouble in that one syllable. Thank goodness the boy had some brains in his head, because he didn't say anything more.

I frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Why had the guards come over here to pick a fight with us? A quarrel was the last thing anyone needed. I glanced at the knights' and saw that they were being provoked to wrath. All of them looked very angry, but they held their ground, their hands by their sides.

"Disgusting barbarian pagans," said another. "You should have saluted! And where is your uniform? Your decent armour? You are a disgrace and should emulate your betters!"

"And where might they be?" Gawain demanded, flaring up. "I haven't encountered any since arriving on this gods-cursed island!"

"We are you natural superiors," snarled Broken Nose. "I will have you beaten for this, you dog!"

"You can't even read and write," jeered another. "I'm surprised you can understand what we're saying since the grunting and squealing of your whore sow mothers was what you were raised on!"

Uncreative fucks, _really?_

Sanity might still have prevailed, but Broken Nose made a crucial mistake and spat at Gawain's feet.

Knowing my brother's volcanic temper, I grabbed his arm and put my full weight into holding him back.

It was no use. Gripped by the psychotic urge to tear the man limb from limb, Gawain was now immune to all reason and I was dragged (literally) into an ugly brawl. At the sight of my brother having all the fun, Bors and Galahad sprang into action. I swear they levitated themselves to the fight, borne by the powers of sheer fury alone.

Gawain goes _at_ people, no matter how outclassed he might be in terms of weight or height. And since these Roman soldiers were not in the same class as the spine-snapping Sarmatian warriors, it ought to have been over quiet quickly.

Except that the soldiers drew steel on unarmed knights and made it a killing matter.

Aha. So that was it. They had been sent here to do away with us.

I shelved all ideas of fair play and charged. The knights had all drawn their own daggers and stood back-to-back, ready for what proved to be a very ugly scene. Knife fights are fast and you get sliced up no matter how good you are. We had spread out slightly, giving us room to move.

The soldiers, having pulled back to draw their weapons, now charged in again, over-confident in their superior numbers. I dodged my target's initial murderous thrust and darted in, slashing at the soldier's unprotected face. He seemed surprised that I would attempt to fight him, despite being so much smaller and scrawnier. I was always the shrimp in such fights, but that had long since ceased to worry me.

Thrust—parry—slice—block—disengage—slash—block—parry—thrust—rinse and repeat. I kept trying to catch the man's wrist or arm, but he was intent on driving me back and since he had a gladius and I had a long slim dirk, I was the one in retreat.

But like Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, I am most dangerous when in retreat. I waited, I studied the enemy's moves and then went in for the kill.

He went in for another grand, showy overhead swing, confident that he was wearing me down (he was not), aiming for my head or shoulder. In a sudden burst of speed and (if I say so myself) peerless footwork, I dodged around the outside of his guard, spun in close and stabbed him neatly in the neck. The knife came out and his heart pumped a gout of blood into the air, painting the snow. As the soldier crumpled, I sprinted over to Galahad and tackled his assailant to the ground. Galahad helped finish him off, and we turned in time to see-

Gawain—constantly vigilant!—surging over to us. His gaze took in the small nick on the side of my neck and new cuts on my hands and thick leather vambraces.

"Is he alive?" he asked, jerking a chin at my victim.

Had he somehow missed the huge puddle of blood under the man? "Ask me a serious question," I deadpanned, wiping my knife off on the soldier's cloak and restoring it to its sheath on my back.

"And you?" Gawain asked.

I shrugged. "It's just scratches."

Then, as we all got our breath back, I heard Dagonet roar and the rescued boy scream on the other side of camp.

Wonderful. I was sure that from the sounds of chaos that the rest of the boys were doing something very stupid. Again.

I picked up my feet and ran like buggery over to the sounds of chaos, ignoring Gawain's screams to 'come-back-here-right-now-gods-damn-it'.

Galahad and Gawain must have heaved Bors onto his horse first and handed him Dagonet's huge war axe, because that bellowing behemoth galloped past me through the camp intent upon wreaking preliminary havoc on Honorius' men, who had been ordered to take the piss this morning. Then Gawain and Galahad also cantered past me.

Thanks to our gruelling training schedule, unbroken for anything—I mean it: hangovers, birthdays, minor injuries and illness… nothing stopped us from all those endless push-ups, long runs through swampy, broken Northumberland ground, duels and melees—I hoofed it over there in record time.

I looped around Honorius' soldiers so that I was in the bank of trees behind them. Gawain and Galahad had galloped off to fetch Arthur and Lancelot, while Dagonet was in a tense stand-off against several heavily armed and armoured soldiers. I drew my dirk again and crept down the slope, ready to kill a few more men if it meant the rest of us could get a bloody move on.

Then a Roman in a toga, who looked like he ate peasants for breakfast, grabbed a blond-haired boy and held a knife to his throat.

Dagonet's latest charity case struggled and whimpered as his head was pulled back.

"Kill him!" the Roman ordered, glaring at Dagonet, who seemed to be holding his own against several soldiers.

This sweaty fuck? Really? The terror of the local community? The peasants ought to be ashamed of themselves for having tolerated him for so long.

As I was calculating how to get past the soldiers and kill Honorius, the Pet strode into the clearing and shot my target in the chest, missing the boy by inches. Honorius staggered and fell, releasing the boy, who wisely ran to hide behind Dagonet. The soldiers looked flabbergasted as they stared at the Pet, who drew another arrow from… _somewhere_ … and nocked it to the string. She drew it back and aimed at nothing in particular.

This was not very smart, since it's actually very hard to hold a bow at full draw without a good reason—i.e. a specific and difficult target that you're trying to draw a bead on. True shooters have an eye and excellent muscle memory. They can stare at a target, make all the relevant calculations in their brain and then draw and fire in one single movement. Tristan, Galahad and I can pull this off, which is why we don't brag about it. I'm only telling the readership in order to criticise the Pet's amateur technique.

Lancelot and Arthur sidled onto the scene without any show of urgency or concern, flanked by Galahad and Gawain on horseback.

"Your hands seem to be better," Lancelot remarked, throwing the Woad a challenging glance. He had his swords crossed over his shoulders. It looked cool, but one day, he'd trip over something (his ego) and slice his own fool head off. I wanted to be there when it happened.

The Pet looked away, seemingly displeased at being found out, and fired her next arrow at the feet of the soldier edging their way. I ask you, where's the fun in that? Was the arrow protruding from the grievously wounded Honorius a fluke? I hoped so.

"Artorius!" Bors screamed, galloping into view, swinging Dagonet's axe above his head. He caught sight of the armed soldiers with their drawn swords and glared ferociously. "Do we have a problem? Huh?" he demanded, buffeting them with his horse's flanks.

I could have hugged him. Trust Bors to understate matters and hurl Arthur's incompetency in his face.

Sadly, Arthur is an incurable moron and thought Bors' question was directed at the soldiers he was pointing his sword at. "You have a choice," he said slowly. "You help, or you die." I decided that his red cape was swiftly becoming a statement of: 'Look at me! I'm a very stupid pillock!'

At their continued silence, Bors nudged one of them again with his horse's shoulder.

The soldiers dropped their swords on the snow, looking sulky. The centurion ordered the other group facing off against Dagonet to put down their weapons. They still looked like they wanted to hack him into mincemeat.

"Do it now!" the centurion yelled.

Dag snarled incoherently, shifting his weight. Perhaps he would have been happier lopping their heads off rather than watch them surrender. I can't say I disagreed with that idea.

Arthur nodded to Jols, who gathered up the swords.

"Arthur," Gawain said. "We've been having logistics issues all morning."

"Supplies trouble?" Arthur asked, frowning in his worry.

Gawain paused and licked his lips, clearly debating how to phrase this, so Galahad answered for him. "More like scout trouble."

Arthur frowned. "What do you mea—?" he cut himself off, as an emaciated thought wandered through the wasteland of his brain. "He's still not back?"

Gawain made a neutral, but unencouraging noise in his throat. I was so proud of Gawain for leading Arthur to assume (erroneously) that Tristan had fallen prey to the Saxons.

"And there's the question of Kation…" Galahad said, letting his voice trail off meaningfully.

Arthur looked around at the knights. None of them seemed to be aware that Honorius was still alive.

But not for much longer. That arrow had pierced his lung—a severe pneumothorax. He should be dead in the next few minutes. I grudgingly awarded the Pet a probationary half-point. I retained the privilege to revoke it at the slightest provocation.

Assured that the knights had matters well in hand, I turned away heading back for my things. Then I had to find the Woads.

My only regret was that I would miss all the entertainment here. But it had always been an 'all work and no fun' lifestyle on the crumbling frontier, and I had to do my part. So I collected up my weapons, cloak and pack before walking back to the place where Merlin had laid his trap for Arthur the previous night.

Once there, I was faced with a rag-tag pack of Woad warriors. They wore a lot more clothes than their comrades whom I had seen in recent days, and only had imperfect patches of blue dye on their faces and hands. I approved. These were clearly more sensible men, not inclined to invite pneumonia and frostbite in this ghastly weather.

They caught sight of me and a hush fell on them as I approached.

"I hope you're ready, because we need to go. Now." I said.

This wasn't a debate, it was an announcement.

You see, I had a theory about the Woads. They were undisciplined, scrappy guerrilla fighters compared to the eye-watering precision of Roman infantry or the deadly hurricane that was the Sarmatian cavalry. They would never really tame down, but after they were shown who was boss, they'd see sense and do what they were told.

One of the Woads stepped forward, a ferocious scowl marring his broad features. "I am Bradan Mac Caradoc," he said in Pictish. "I lead these men."

 _The day I can't sort out a few idiots with blue dye festering between their arse-cheeks_ … I thought to myself, with a species of grim resolution.

I stopped walking, and _smiled_. It had razor blades in it.

"We can do this the hard way, or…" I trailed off, catching myself in the cliché. Why complicate matters? "We'll do this the hard way," I said. There was no time to waste on bickering with the indigenes.

Mac Caradoc growled and moved closer, drawing a long knife from its sheath on his belt. A clear attempt at intimidation.

A cruel but necessary lesson was about to be learned.

The only way to equalise a size/weight advantage is to know more than your opponent. There are no shortcuts. Being small means I am always at a disadvantage. So I dodged to the side at the last minute, grabbed Mac Caradoc's arm and locked his wrist. This brought his arm around and I was able to use his momentum to flip him around his shoulder joint and he landed hard on his back.

Keeping the arm locked, I put a boot on his head to keep him from further shenanigans. I felt a moment's disappointment when he did not even struggle. "Don't tell me that's it," I said. But Mac Caradoc was not getting up without my permission. I lost a little respect for him, but at the same time felt much better. At least he was being smart.

I let go of his arm and stepped forward, glaring at the Woad archers.

"Right!" I announced. " _I_ am in charge. Mac Caradoc will be my second. You know your orders from Merlin—that you now take them from me. Am I understood?"

Now they looked reluctant, as if seeking any old flimsy pretext to slip away.

I could handle them.

"I said _: Am I understood?"_ I repeated, feeling like a refugee from _Full Metal Jacket_.

The was a disjointed chorus of mumbled affirmatives.

Aware that I had left Mac Caradoc—alive and probably upset at the loss of dignity—at my back, I turned around very slowly.

Nothing untoward happened.

Good.

In fact, the burly Woad was picking himself up off the floor and rubbing his sore arm. I beckoned to him, and he shuffled over to stand next to me. I would always be a scrawny specimen of womanhood, and next to the broad figure of Mac Caradoc my deficiencies were even more pronounced.

Nevertheless.

They. Will. Respect. Me.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder to where Arthur's enormous charity case was noisily breaking camp. "We're the rear-guard for _that,_ " I said. "And unless Arthur is planning any further acts of incredible stupidity, they should be back at the Wall by mid-afternoon."

"You won't be able to keep up with us," Mac Caradoc rumbled next to me, his arms folded over his chest.

He had such a winning way about him. I could tell we were going to be fast friends.

Ordinarily, I would have ignored such a statement, but I had to start as I meant to continue.

"I did not give you permission to speak, Mac Caradoc," I said. "As for the rest of you bastards—I know you have codes of tradition and honour, but I neither know nor care. I need your knowledge of the terrain and your skills with a bow. We won't be spending enough time together for other things to matter. We have work to do, and we're going to do it. I hope that you are ready for the demanding tasks likely to be encountered in the field."

"Field?" One of the archers repeated.

"A technical term," I said. "In short, we are going to make the Saxons' day a living hell."

* * *

When the senior officer has all the flexibility of a brittle log, it's time to capitalise on the secondary players. My Woad archers were covert, well-trained and prepared for all challenges.

I took the time to learn all their names, because that way they would do a better job.

I also impressed upon them the vital importance of not wandering off, but always to let someone know where they were.

The poor Saxons hadn't the faintest idea who they were dealing with. They found themselves up against implacable and all too inventive adversaries. We laid a series of boobytraps which were not lethal, but put them on edge and made them paranoid. We could not kill them, for we did not have the resources or the time to build a lethal trap like the one that the knights had trotted blithely into two days ago.

Nevertheless, I fight to win. And by 'win', I mean 'render harmless by any means necessary, including death'.

Sadly, we managed to injure several and kill only two, but that did not stop us from sustaining our sabotage.

With biting winds lacerating us as we trudged south, I even had time to think, since I had shit firmly under control.

Arthur and I would need to have a long talk that he wouldn't enjoy when this was over.

Because this is the moral, children: _never kill for a cause_. It never pays. Adherents expect the professional to kill for the righteousness of it. They don't want to pay you, they don't understand why you want paying. Arthur was the kind who looked shocked and appalled every time I brought up the topic of wages.

When I saw the receipt for the Round Table, I nearly fainted. Then I read Arthur a searing homily about how his rampant ego should not have been made manifest with a sizeable portion of the Fort's maintenance budget. The only reason he got away with it was because the knights hadn't known, and I had not yet arrived at the Fort.

And now I was going to have to talk to him about loyalty.

Loyalty to his principles, versus the loyalty to his men. He had a tendency to confuse the two in his feeble mind, but in reality the two things were almost mutually exclusive. As evidenced by Arthur devising suicide missions and then brazenly marching into them without any kind of back-up plan and every sign of willingness to sacrifice knights for The Cause Of The Day.

Loyalty was hugely important in our line of work. And if you didn't trust someone, how could you work with them?

In light of recent events, how could any of us work with Arthur?

He was going to get us all killed. That's what made him a Good Man. He was _good_ at feeling sad and guilty.

He was _good_ at inspiring others.

He was _good_ at sacrificing those he loved to the causes that meant even more to him.

And he was so very _good_ at convincing himself and others that those he sacrificed had been willing to die for the cause—rather than the sad truth that they were just unlucky bastards in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I worried my dry lip with my teeth and felt it split and bleed. I wished I'd found the time to make more lip balm. But beeswax and nut oil were expensive and hard to come by on the crumbling frontier. So I sucked the blood away and trudged on, banishing such miserable musings from my mind.

Then, I thought of something. It was a nasty little idea for a nasty little target.

I summoned Mac Caradoc.

"Yes?" he said.

"I need you and your stealthiest friends to abduct a Saxon, alive. Doesn't matter which one you pick, or if you injure him, so long as he's able to walk."

"For…?"

"Stupid question—do as I say and you'll see soon enough." I snapped.

Mac Caradoc nodded and departed.

I led the rest of the Woads in a distraction, playing hare to the hounds to draw out a Saxon for Mac Caradoc and his burly friends to silently apprehend.

We caught one who had stopped to answer the call of nature. Little did he know he also answered the call of Fate. This abduction went fairly smoothly, and we took the precaution of stripping his armour and weapons off him. We also gagged him and bound his arms very tightly.

This done, we circled around the Saxons (because we were far better and less burdened long-distance lopers than our heavily armoured opponents) and I announced my intention to check on Arthur's painfully slow progress. I had to go alone because the chances of running into Tristan were considerable. And the likelihood of him attacking the Woads was a certainty. I knew the poor lamb was on edge, and didn't want to aggravate his nerves any further.

"Little Devil!" Mac Caradoc said softly, jogging to catch up with me.

Didn't I just have all the best nicknames?

"Well?"

"The caravan is approaching the frozen lake. We know it is safe to cross with enough care, but if those horses jump up and down or the wagons are loaded for bear, then they will break the ice."

I nodded. "Maintain this pace and send scouts back to monitor the Saxons' progress. Do not attack under any circumstances."

Mac Caradoc growled his affirmative and I lengthened my stride, moving up the pack of men and then breaking into a loping run. I ran parallel to the obvious trail left by the peasants and found Galahad.

"Gally!" I hissed from the shadows of the trees.

Galahad's back straightened and he looked around. "Kat?" he hissed.

I slid down the bank and moved into the shadow of his horse's shoulder where no one could see me. "Report," I said softly.

"Yes?"

"You're approaching a frozen lake. The ice will hold if you spread out and don't jump up and down. Muffle the horse's hooves in fabric to stop them slipping and unload the wagons and carts. We'll be watching from the trees. Pass the message onto the knights."

Galahad nodded and reached down to briefly touch my shoulder. "Thanks." There was a pause and we walked along in silence for a while. "And… about the other thing."

 _Oh lord, here we go…_

"I've thought about it," Galahad went on, suddenly tentative. "And after questioning Gawain extensively…" he swallowed.

I rolled my eyes and considered going back to the Woads. This was so not the time.

"… Well, I wish I'd been told in the first place. I'd have supported you. After I'd stopped shouting."

That drew a chuff of laughter from me.

"Thanks, Galahad," I said, reaching up to touch his knee. "That means a lot."

His hand rested briefly over mine and then patted it. "Alright. Go hack, stab, kill—you know, do your thing. Good talk."

"Good talk." I concurred and then went back into the trees.

* * *

 **Reviews would make my day. Week. Year (what's left of it).**

 **Cheers! ~L.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Greetings!**

 **Apologies for the delay, but real life gets in the way.**

 **This chapter is the start of the on-screen canon** **divergence. In accordance with a reviewer's feedback, I am saving the knights who died in the film. Because f**k that.**

 **Warnings : Graphic violence, an execution, mutilation of the corpse, swearing, yelling, etc. **

**Disclaimers : Only the OCs are mine. Any quotes or concepts you recognise are from the film. **

* * *

KAHEDIN: 

Kahedin had mobilised all remaining residents of the Fort while waiting for the twins to return with those bloody German horse wallopers and any other auxiliaries that could be raised on such short notice. Vanora, with her enormous brood, was like a particularly angry and vociferous hen. The children were constantly underfoot, but with Brenna dead these past eight years and Verica gone to Londinium with her nice young merchant, there was no one to help keep the little monsters at bay.

And then there was Bishop Germanus. It was immediately apparent to Kahedin that the dodgy political bastard should know nothing of Kation's plan. So the knight kept a very low profile and crept through the Sarmatian barracks like a ghost, wearing his oldest and most unobtrusive clothes. He looked over the preliminary defence plans Kation had carefully drawn to scale with colour codes and careful notes.

It was a thing of beauty. He wished he had the men to get it ready in time. As it was, he could only hope that he could pull off the most crucial features of it once the Batavians appeared on the horizon.

It was the second time those uppity bastards had to be called in to save the knights from disaster.

It was galling. Infuriating.

 _Embarrassing._

But Kation was right. They needed those smug fucking bastards.

He was hiding in his room, going over and over the papers, plans, letters and Kation's final message. He felt like he was going mad, staring at the words. They were not giving him anything new. No new hope or inspiration. Just neatly written instructions that failed to give him the answers he needed.

There were sound tactics and precise drawings, but nothing personal. Afraid that he'd never see Kation again, he had hoped for more hidden notes. Or pictures idly sketched in the corners. Or savage epigrams about Arthur or Tristan, or whoever had annoyed her that day.

He hoped for something more personal than that letter she had left them. She was his best friend—his tiny, hyper-aggressive lunatic who laughed with her eyes and haunted rooftops and always seemed to know what to do in a crisis.

He shook himself and set the papers aside. Now was not the time to grieve. If _anyone_ could survive north of the Wall in that evil swamp, it was Kation and Tristan. And between them, they'd get the others back alive too.

They _had_ to.

Feeling useless, Kahedin stood and stalked to the walls, looking for the Twins and those bloody—

—oh gods!

He flinched at the sound of a horn shrilling through the air. The soldiers on sentry duty sent up the shout to open the gates and Kahedin sagged in relief at the sight of two familiar blonde riders trotting smartly up to the Fort at the head of a column of horsemen and infantry. They were moving at a sedate walk.

As if there was no fucking rush.

Kahedin nearly screamed. But with a heroic effort, he suppressed the urge and walked down to the open gates, falling into step beside the twins.

"Where's Aquinas?" he asked.

"Right here, Sarmatian," said the handsome Roman officer, riding up to them with a faint smile on his face.

Kahedin felt his eyes narrowing and forced himself to smile back.

"So glad you could make it," he said, letting some honeyed sarcasm bleed into his voice.

Aquinas laughed. _Laughed._ "Please spare me," he said. "We both know why we're here." He tapped a finger against a leather messenger tube that hung from his saddle. "That pet tiger of Arthur's."

"Just what hold has Kation got over you?" Cador asked, unable to help himself.

Aquinas scowled, his good humour disappearing like morning mist. "None of your business. Let's get set up."

In the privacy of his own head, Kahedin agreed and turned sharply on his heel to stalk back to the Fort.

But the news of the Batavians' arrival was taken to Bishop Germanus. The nasty little Italian came hurrying out of Arthur's quarters, his robes flapping about him.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"Bishop Germanus?" Aquinas asked, staring down at the man of God.

"Indeed, and who are you, soldier?" the bishop demanded.

"Well, what with the breakdown of formal order and bureaucracy on this island, I have been appointed _legatus legionis_ until such time as my legion are formally recalled to Rome. So it is not for you, a _civilian_ , to interrogate me."

Kahedin was glad that Dinadan's horse was hiding him from the bishop's gaze, because that news startled him badly. It meant that Aquinas formally outranked everyone here, including and most especially Arthur.

"So, you may address me as Legate Aquinas and get out of my way," the Batavian commander finished with a deceptively friendly smile and nudged his horse into a walk. "You holiness," he added over his shoulder, as he rode towards the Sarmatian barracks. The bishop spluttered wordlessly as they moved on. Kahedin thought this a masterful set down, but would not admit it under torture.

Aquinas turned to his centurion and told him to get the men settled in, before following Kahedin and the twins back to the Sarmatian barracks.

"What a repellent little man," Aquinas said, his tone conversational. "Now, let's see those plans the tiger has drawn up…"

* * *

Hopefully the Batavians had arrived at the Fort and were already drawing up the defence plans I had left behind. Ten years of hard graft at a crumbling frontier had taught me not to live in fear, but make preparations.

But that meant I kept on operating beyond my brief. Because someone had to. Arthur was about as useful as a chocolate kettle unless it involved fighting, being judgemental or inspiring idiots. 'Honour Before Reason' seemed to be his motto. This brought to mind the Incident of the Sea Captain's Ear. _That_ entire mission can be summed up by saying 'Oh shit' several times while rocking back and forth, hugging one's knees.

And I had only three arrows in my quiver: influence, intelligence and skills. And I would have to use all of them to get the knights home. No matter how many bastards and arseholes I needed to eviscerate or demolish to get them there.

But to get away with such tactics, my motto had to be 'Plausible Deniability' _._ I had to lend a carefully concealed hand in most instances, otherwise even an immortal life wouldn't be worth living if Tristan got wind of _half_ the things I had done.

Nor did I mess around with amateurs. And my pack of Woads were certainly professionals, just a species to the type I was used to dealing with. No matter, I had them thoroughly under control by the time we reached the lake.

"How's the prisoner?" I asked, re-joining the Saxon and his babysitters.

"About as well as you'd expect," said Mac Caradoc. "We've been dragging him across rough ground for the better part of the day and for what?"

"Dinner," I replied promptly.

There was a chorus of disgusted curses and I had to smother a grin. Christ, but these Woads were so much fun. To wind up.

Mac Caradoc's cousin caught the flicker in my eyes and failed to hide his smile fast enough. He was cuffed round the head by a comrade, because to raise a hand to me would have meant death (I didn't have time to waste on 'punishments'), and someone had to pay for such a macabre joke.

"No, really," Mac Caradoc said. "Why did we take a prisoner?"

"Because we are out to demoralise the enemy." I answered. "You'll see." _Everyone_ would see. "Now, let's pick up the pace and get to the lake."

Unlike the half-starved peasants carrying their worldly possessions, we were able to overtake the caravan of refugees, knights and Romans.

"What's the plan?" Mac Caradoc asked, looking at the bare rock and ice that surrounded us. "Not enough cover for—"

"We don't need it," I replied. I turned to look at the Woads. "Alright, I want half of you on that ridge and the other on the opposite bank. We're going to pin them down with sustained fire and buy Arthur enough time to get away. With any luck the ice will break under their concentrated weight."

"That still doesn't explain the prisoner," Mac Caradoc said.

What was his fixation about? Did he fancy the guy?

I threw him an irritated look.

"He will die. At the correct time and place." I said.

"An example?" Mac Caradoc guessed.

Something stretched my mouth wide. It wasn't a smile. "A promise."

* * *

Tristan had stayed at the head of the line of travellers, mostly to get as far away from the Pet's voice as possible.

The fact that she and Arthur were talking utter shite to each other was extra incentive.

They had been poncing about in the unwelcoming damp for far too long already. And now Kation was dragging some Woads around. Who knew when they would stab her in the back and leave her in the snow? Because if that happened, she would be so angry and Tristan would be very hard put to not say 'I told you so'. Because, after all, he had not said that the plan was insane. Most of her plans were insane. They also had a maddening tendency to work, despite his unceasing scepticism.

So he reserved his right to smug silence whenever a plan did go awry. And after she came down from sulky contemplation on the roof, he would reserve the right to grin knowingly at her.

As the snow grew heavier he wished that he could have Kation in front of him on the saddle. He wanted to hold her close and gallop back to the Fort. Then he would carve that smile off the bishop's face and go back to Sarmatia, just to confirm it was still as dreadful as he remembered it to be before turning around again and… and… From there, who knew? Perhaps all this planning was irrelevant. The green-skinned god may rip him and Kation away from this world at any time.

Lancelot drew level with him, looking as resentful as a child denied honey cakes.

Tristan did not want to ask. Because to ask would be to break open the dam and drown in a torrent of fifteen year old unresolved sexual tension between Lancelot and Arthur. And that tension had long since become stale for everyone else. Tristan thought they should either fuck and get it out of their systems, or kill each other and spare the rest of them the extra reason to drink. Gods knew, there were enough of those already.

So they rode on in silence until they reached the frozen lake. Tristan looked around for a sign of Kat and her band of murderers. Nothing.

He didn't know if that was a comfort or a worry.

"Is there no other way?" Arthur asked him as they all stood on the lakeshore.

"No. We must cross the ice." Tristan rather enjoyed saying this. Finally, an ultimatum Arthur couldn't wriggle out of.

"Get them all out of the carriages, tell them to spread out," Arthur said to Jols, who obediently cantered back to spread the news.

The knights all dismounted and started to walk over the ice.

Tristan stayed close to Arthur, because if that idiot was going to crash through the ice, he wanted to see every detailed second of it.

"This is a good spot for an ambush," Dagonet said softly to Tristan, drawing abreast with him.

"Then Kation will be well-placed," Tristan replied.

Nothing happened by chance with Kation. She worked everything out ahead of time. She was probably sitting in a tree somewhere, looking down at them and shaking her head, muttering _'Oh you idiots…'_

The caravan spread out over the ice like good two-legged sheep and just when Tristan was starting to think that they'd managed to pull it off, they heard the Saxon drums in the valley behind them.

Arthur stopped and turned back to them.

Tristan knew what was coming, but wished he didn't have to hear it.

"Knights…"

 _Oh how could you?_

"Well, I'm tired of running," Bors said. "And these Saxons are so close behind my arse is hurting."

Well, if they were going with defiant witticisms…

"Never liked looking over my shoulder, anyway," he said.

"Be a pleasure to put an end to this racket," Gawain muttered.

"Finally get a look at the bastards," Galahad added.

Dagonet led his horse towards Jols, moving past Arthur. "Here. Now." He declared.

Tristan felt a surge of the anticipation which was infecting them all.

"Jols!" Arthur said.

Jols knew his cue and turned to the peasants. "You two, take the horses." He said, instantly in command of everyone who wasn't a knight. Tristan admired that inexorable quality in the man.

Arthur was instructing that embarrassing weed from the villa, telling him how to get to the fort.

"But you're seven against two hundred!" the kid said.

"Eight," said the loathsome voice of the Pet. "You could use another bow." As she stalked past Arthur, Tristan was disappointed (but not surprised) to see Arthur staring after her, his important orders temporarily forgotten.

Gawain raised his eyebrows, pulled a sarcastic face and mouthed 'you could use another bow', at the rest of them.

Tristan glanced at the others from under his fringe and saw that he wasn't the only one suddenly wearing a mask of sombre intent. To laugh would be to ruin the moment of shared disgust.

Then the boy Alecto stepped up. "I am able, I can fight," he said.

Arthur (for once in his life doing the sensible thing) refused this ludicrous offer as he hadn't the first (the Pet), who had inserted herself in the line between Arthur and Lancelot with all the subtlety of Bors after a crate of wine had been poured down his throat.

Tristan could feel Lancelot's seething outrage from where he stood at the end of the line. No, he was definitely not going near that man until the situation was resolved. Jols laid bundles of arrows at their feet and hurried to the shore to stand with the horses. If this went the way Tristan expected it to, they would probably need a swift getaway.

Then he saw the dark mass of the Saxons arriving on the edge of the lake. They advanced across the ice in a broad line, spreading out to distribute their weight in the same way their quarry had.

"Hold until I give the command," Arthur said.

As if he would allow anything else.

Tristan rolled his eyes and took a moment to pull a clean handkerchief from his sleeve and blow his nose loudly.

"You look frightened," Lancelot said to the Pet, trying to rattle her. "There's a large number of lonely men out there."

The knights waited for the Pet to squeak in outrage and hurt, for Arthur to leap to her defence. And instead, she astonished them all.

"Don't worry, I won't let them rape you."

Grudgingly, he had to give her a mental nod of acknowledgement. Just one, though, because she was unwelcome and irritating.

One of the Saxons yelled and an arrow clattered on the ice between them. In the snow-clad silence, he heard a Saxon's angry snarl.

"I believe they're waiting for an invitation," Arthur said. "Bors, Tristan."

That was his cue to show off. He nocked three arrows and saw Bors draw back his own bow. They released at the same time and Tristan was happy to see four Saxons crumple to the ground.

Not so 'far out of range' after all.

Tristan hoped for Lancelot's sake that this was Arthur's attempt to show her up and console his second in command on being monstrously outmanoeuvred by that chit.

Still, it was time to start plugging away at the advancing Saxons, so he set to.

"Aim for the wings of the ranks—make them cluster!" Arthur ordered.

As if that wasn't the plan all along.

Tristan kept firing, high and fast and deadly, but the Saxons were getting closer. Their arrows were not enough to destroy them all. They also seemed to have sped up.

And just as Arthur told them to fall back and 'prepare for combat' (as if they had been exchanging pleasantries rather than fire before now), a series of dark, things were hurled from the escarpment above. They sailed end over end and went 'splat!' in front of the Saxons, bursting with red as they hit the ice.

"What the…?" Lancelot said, but never finished that question because there was a shrill, piercing whistle from above that rang in the air for a long, tense moment.

And then a hail of arrows rained down upon the Saxons from both ridges, forcing them into a defensive blob of screaming targets. In possession of the high ground: Kation with her highly trained and motivated associates.

Gawain gave a yell of triumph.

"The kitten's fucking done it!" he howled, punching the air.

They stared, some open-mouthed, at the carnage before them. Tristan saw two groups of Woads on either side of the lake, firing down from the top of the cliffs. He tried to find Kation amongst them, but to no avail—she was not one of the archers. Nevertheless, the Woads were exterminating the Saxons with vigour.

This was Kation's show. She was running everything. Tristan found that comforting, since it was one less thing to worry about.

"Fire!" Arthur yelled, unnecessarily, and the knights all resumed their contribution to the slaughter.

"Commander Kation?" Galahad said, throwing a teasing grin at Tristan.

"Gods help us all," he replied, considering that to be his ringing endorsement.

The ice groaned beneath the Saxons, but didn't break.

"It's not breaking!" Lancelot yelled.

Yes, they could all see that. Tristan kept firing, ignoring the burn in his fingers and shoulders as he drew and fired over and over again.

Then Dagonet picked up his axe and ran forward with a wordless yell.

"Dag!" Bors yelled, more in surprise than anything else.

Tristan concurred. What the hell was their Not-So-Gentle Giant doing?

It became evident a second later.

He slammed his axe into the ice at his feet. He meant to hurry matters the fuck up.

Arthur yelled at them to give Dagonet covering fire, but it was no good. As the ice cracked, a bolt caught him in his side. He collapsed.

At that point, Bors snatched up his shield and broke from the line with a scream of rage and panic, sprinting towards Dagonet.

Then Galahad and Gawain ran after Bors, each carrying a shield and both yelling at the top of their lungs.

Typical. Idiots.

Tristan picked up his bundle of arrows and strode after them at a more dignified pace.

By the time he reached the others, Dagonet had shoved Bors away and had resumed his mission to break the ice. Gawain was holding a shield in front of himself, covering Galahad behind him, who was firing arrows at the Saxons. Bors joined Gawain in providing a small but useful shield wall and Tristan stood behind Bors. As he fired arrow after arrow into the mass, he heard Dagonet slam his axe into the ice over and over again.

Then there was an almighty bang and the ice tilted beneath their feet. Tristan regained his balance and turned to yell at Dagonet. "Again!"

"Move! Get back!" Gawain said, already stepping up to flank Dagonet. Bors did the same on his left, holding out his shield and screaming obscenities at the Saxons.

Dagonet's roar was more of pain than effort, and the cracks turned into open fissures beneath their feet. Bors and Tristan grabbed Dagonet's tunic as they plunged into water so cold that Tristan's congested lungs seized up and his throat shrank from the shock.

He struggled to the surface, tugging Dagonet up with him, and broke the surface with a gasp and a watery cough. Gawain and Galahad were already trying to haul themselves out of the water, but the ice kept breaking off under their hands as they put their weight on it.

"Help us!" Bors screamed, helping Tristan to keep Dagonet's head above water.

Lancelot, Arthur and Jols dashed forward, but had to stop when the ice beneath their feet creaked ominously. Arthur looked wracked with guilt. Lancelot wrung his hands and stamped his feet impatiently. But Jols knew what to do.

"We need rope!" he exclaimed.

"Well shit," called a familiar and sarcastic voice from the escarpment above them. "I can see we're not needed here anymore. You're doing such a marvellous job down there."

"Kat!" Gawain yelled. He sounded as angry as Tristan felt.

A lithe, dark figure climbed down the escarpment with an easy grace and impressive speed. His muse loved an entrance. She landed on the ice in an easy, catlike crouch and straightened to stride over to them.

"How in thunder did she do that?!" Galahad gasped.

"Kat!" Gawain yelled again. "Come here!"

She shot them a small smile. She was probably rather smug at having to save them all.

Gods, but that woman drove him fucking insane.

"Hang on, and don't be cross," she said, pulling a coil of rope off her shoulders.

"I won't be angry, if you just _come here right now!"_ Gawain yelled.

Kation stood on the ice, looking very black and severe against the snow. The wind lifted her cloak, but she subdued it, tossing it expertly over her shoulder with one arm.

As she got closer, he saw that she was covered in blood. Dark smudges sat under her eyes and her face was white. She looked ghastly and pale with fury, actually.

"Kation!" Arthur exclaimed, looking just as angry. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

"Shut up." Kation spoke in the acid tone of a much put-upon scout whose job is constantly being interfered with.

Her words left Arthur looking gobsmacked. Kation tossed Jols and Lancelot one end of the rope she had brought along and then walked across the ice towards the submerged knights.

* * *

Now, it's my turn to explain this series of embarrassingly awful events.

Because I usually enjoyed the adrenaline-fuelled rescues. Turns out it's not so much fun when the rescue entails idiot commanders.

A note to professionals: it's better to be strategically early than fashionably late. We divided into two even groups and positioned ourselves up on the escarpments overlooking the lake. I had chosen the side that included Mac Caradoc (my newest friend—kind of) and the Saxon prisoner.

And then I announced what I had in mind for the prisoner. As I did so, I thought of Gawain's disapproving countenance. It helped. And besides, this would scare the enemy, and it would give the knights the edge they desperately needed.

After all, they were my family. There was nothing I would not do for them. I was totally justified in my endeavours. (And they were going to really lose their minds when they found out about the Batavians. I still wasn't sorry.)

"We are going to cut him to pieces and hurl the bloody lumps at the Saxons."

Mac Caradoc was aghast. "Why?"

"Because to truly demoralise the enemy, you must show no mercy to at least one of their comrades."

Their expressions ranged from nauseous to gleeful.

"I only want volunteers to help me," I added, hoping this might put them at ease. But I might as well have had their genitals in a bench vice, because no one protested against this plan. In fact, the blood-thirsty ones promptly fell into an arm-wrestling contest to see who got to do the blood-work with me.

And it was red work indeed.

The quickest way to cut someone's head off isn't to hack away merrily like you see on television. No, the best way is to kill the victim first so that they don't struggle. No point in getting yourself hurt in the effort—and workplace safety is important. I made it as quick and painless as possible. I had my assistant hit him hard on the back of the head and then we stuck a knife through his heart.

Once they're dead, you slice through the skin, muscle and windpipe till you hit bone. Cut all the way around the bone with a very sharp knife. Turn the body onto its front, so that the spine is raised. Pick up your axe or sword and hit the bone as hard as you can. Ideally it will only take two or three blows to break through the spine.

There, job done.

If anyone was to ask me for the secret of my slim figure, the answer would be the necessity to kill people almost every day.

Then we cut the clothes off the body and started to butcher the corpse. It was easier to take it apart at the joints, much like butchering livestock. We left the torso intact and dragged it out of the way. The limbs would be less cumbersome to throw.

It was such a satisfying thing that I skipped past the 'what have I done?' stage, and went straight to singing.

" _First cut is the deepest_ ," I crooned as I sliced into the shoulder joint. " _Baby, I know the first cut is the deepest. But when it comes to being lucky she's cursed."_ Wasn't that the truth? I felt as lucky as someone who regularly smashed mirrors. _"When it comes to loving me she's the worst…"_

Yeah. I have no excuses. Twisted sense of humour set in long ago as a coping mechanism.

This task done, each volunteer took a piece of the body to throw at the Saxons at the right time. Then we settled in to wait.

The knights and the refugees were not long in arriving, although it seemed to take them a geological age to cross the lake.

I lay down on the very edge of the cliff, looking down at the knights—trying to see if they were all well.

Then we heard the Saxon war drums and saw the knights form up in a defensive line.

Archery against a superior force. Groundbreaking. I rolled my eyes.

"Alright lads," I said, crawling back and getting to my feet. "This is what you've trained for. Wait for my order."

The Woads got into position, I waved my hand above my head and the Woads on the other side also formed up.

We watched as the Saxons and knights proved their respective firing ranges to each other, and start to exchange fire.

"Do it."

"What?" Mac Caradoc asked, too distracted by the high quality entertainment unfolding below us.

"Fucking now!" I screamed, then stuck two fingers into my mouth and gave the whistle to signal the Woads on the other side.

Body parts were flung. Bows were drawn back and arrows rained down. It was time to tear some Saxons apart. It was a killing pit. Saxons screamed, bunched together and fell. Arthur sees glory and great deeds. But this was the reality. This was a bloody mess.

My heart felt like it had stopped when I saw Dagonet charge forward, fully riled up and swinging his axe.

"Oh bugger me with Neptune's trident," I said. "Shit's starting to get real, kids."

Then I saw Dagonet fall, a crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder. "Nooo, oh good lord!" I moaned, aiming more precisely at the Saxon bowmen. "That everyday armour can only do so much!"

There was only one course open to us now: covering Dagonet. Immediate, savage and on a scale that would sufficiently convey the magnitude of my displeasure.

"Kill them all!" I yelled, picking my own targets carefully.

The Woads replied with a banshee chorus of individual war cries, and there was a epic collective scream from the other side of the lake in answer. Both sides increased their rate of fire.

I saw that Bors, Gawain, Galahad and Tristan had all gone forward to defend Dagonet, who was back on his feet. But I didn't know where that bolt had hit him, and how long he would be able to stand.

Then I heard the harsh, sonorous rumble of cracking ice.

"Yes!" Mac Caradoc yelled, taking a break from firing to punch the air.

"Keep going!" I reminded him. But even as I spoke, I saw the ice part and all five knights disappear into the dark water.

I swore and ran to where I had left my rucksack. I pulled out the coil of thin rope I had squirrelled away out of paranoia and looped it across my body.

"What are you doing?" Mac Caradoc bellowed as I headed towards the cliff edge.

"Going to help. Harry those bastards' retreat, but don't engage at close quarters. And bring me my pack when you've used all your arrows."

Then I climbed down the cliff as quickly as I could, ignoring the way my over-tired muscles shrieked in protest. I dropped the last seven feet, stuck the landing like a pro and then stalked over to where Arthur, Lancelot and Jols stood on the ice, gaping at me like a pack of fools.

Gawain was shouting for me, and I wanted to run to him, but knew that someone around here had to act like they had a fully functioning brain.

"Kat! Come here!"

I gave him a smile, feeling tired and rather pleased with how this awful situation had turned out.

"Hang on," I said. "And don't be cross."

"I won't be angry, if you just _come here right now!"_ Gawain yelled, smacking the water and managing to splash Galahad in the face.

And Arthur wanted to shout at me too, it seemed.

"Kation!" Arthur barked. He looked rather cross. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

"Shut up," I said, thinking only of the knights treading water twenty feet away from me, courting hypothermia. My brain kept on offering up images of Dagonet being hit by that bolt, and of Tristan's head disappearing under the water. Of Gawain's shout of relief and frustration. I didn't have time to humour the human definition of wasted potential.

I took off the coil of rope and handed Jols and Lancelot one end of it. Then I let the rest spool out behind me as I walked back to the hole in the ice.

When I heard the ice start to creak under my feet, I dropped to my hands and knees, distributing my weight and crawled towards the hole.

Then I tossed the rope at Gawain.

"Tie it around Dagonet," I said.

My brother caught it and swam over to the hero of the day.

"Dag! Hold on!"

"Don't shout in my face," Dagonet rasped, his face an ugly grey colour. But he let Bors and Gawain tie the rope around his shoulders. It was going to aggravate his wounds, but that was a price he'd have to pay.

I turned back to Lancelot and was pleased to see that Arthur was also holding the rope at the other end, ready to—

"Pull!" Arthur cried, eternal master of the obvious.

He, Lancelot and Jols dragged Dagonet out of the ice. It took a while, with the ice nearly breaking under Dagonet (and me), but they managed to pull him to more solid ground.

The exercise was repeated with Bors, then Gawain, Galahad and finally Tristan. I was the one in charge of ferrying the rope back and forth between the swimmers and the rescue party.

I hoped that Tristan had gained new sympathy for how I felt when I had been stuck down that well. Certainly, his lips were blue and his hands were shaking almost too badly to grasp the rope, but he managed it. When I was going back for my beloved, I didn't speak, but my mouth framed the words: 'Got you!' He glared at me, but as he was pulled out of the water, he snagged my wrist and pulled me close.

"Stop it," I snapped. "You're too cold."

He ignored my protest and kissed my forehead, blindly nudging a lock of my hair out of the way with his freezing nose. As soon as we were on thicker ice and our feet, he clamped his hands on my head, and rained kisses down on my face—more or less at random—and asking a myriad of questions in his native Halani dialect. However, since his hands covered my ears, I had no idea what he was saying.

When I managed to persuade him to readjust his grip, I heard the words ' _thank you'_ and _'love you'_ and ' _will have words about this'._

So much to look forward to.

* * *

 **Reviews would be very kind and gratefully received. Who is reading this? What do you think?**

 **Cheers! ~L.**


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